


The Devil Drath

by ThorneInYourSide



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dark, Graphic Description, M/M, Vampire Turning, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-10 04:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11684568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThorneInYourSide/pseuds/ThorneInYourSide
Summary: Work inspired by our D&D group's current Curse of Strahd campaign.Drath is a Half-Elf Warlock who is tired of being manipulated by beings more powerful than himself. Caught up in a suicidal quest to destroy the vampire lord, Strahd Von Zarovich, the last thing he expects is a personal invitation to Castle Ravenloft.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

For the fourth time that night, Drath stopped to check and re-read the sheet of parchment, as if the careful script would somehow disappear from the letter.

 

**_My friend,_ **

**_I wish to speak with you regarding the pressing issue of ongoing confrontations between your party and the noble inhabitants of my land._ **

**_Know that I am extending a great courtesy in allowing you once again into my home, considering the distasteful results of our last encounter. For this reason, I ask that you come alone, and that you tell no one of this correspondence._ **

**_Failure to do so will yield my wrath, which, I expect you know by now, is best avoided._ **

**_Having observed your deeds these passing months, I have come to know you as a competent fighter, and the least foolish of your companions. As such I understand that you will need an assurance of your safety, in the hope that you will satisfy my request._ **

**_I have made my servants aware that you are under my protection for the length of our communication. If you indulge me in this, then on my honour you will remain unharmed until you return to your party._ **

**_Please do not keep me waiting._ **

**_Your host,_ **

**_Strahd Von Zarovich_ **

 

Drath sighed and steeled himself for what was to come. As if sensing the tension in the air, his horse pawed the ground uncertainly. The beast was far from happy at having been brought into the shadow of Castle Ravenloft. Against his better judgement, Drath refolded the parchment, tucking it back into the inner lining of his cloak, and pressed the nervous creature on.

His mind wandered back to when he first discovered the letter in his pack earlier that day. He thought it was another practical joke played by Grundlesmit, the Gnome Rogue and constant trickster in his band of companions. His conclusion swiftly changed when Drath attempted to berate the Gnome for his antics. Before he had the chance to say anything a feeling of dread and cold swept over him, a feeling only experienced in the presence of the devil Strahd. Fearing the repercussions from the vampire, Drath kept his mouth firmly shut, and stayed silent as the rest of the day passed.

He was tired and afraid, but the safety of his companions was at the forefront of his mind. He swore a long time ago that he would never allow himself to feel helpless again. A creeping anger bled into his consciousness at Strahd’s attitude. Powerful ruler of the land he may be, but Drath was done with the entitlement and cruel whims of his ‘host’.

The points of his ears reddened as he allowed himself to seethe. A long-forgotten memory of his mother surfaced, where she teasingly told him that such strong emotions were unbecoming of his elven heritage. His father thought it hilarious, as his anger at some forgotten slight gave way to embarrassment. As a Half-Elf his parentage was slightly unusual, in that his High Elf mother, gave up her life in Eladrin society, to live with the man she loved, on a humble but cosy homestead. The Warlock was deeply troubled to realise that this was probably the last happy memory of his parents.

He blinked to clear his thoughts before they could take him further down the rabbit hole. As the castle loomed above him, Drath could feel dozens of malevolent eyes watching his progress. He cast ‘Blade Ward’ as a precaution, the crackle of magical energy a comforting blanket across his body. The cantrip was a nice reminder that he was still a proficient warrior when required. What wasn’t so pleasant was the familiar tug at the back of his mind, like a chained dog having its collar yanked by a cruel and controlling master.

When his companions asked about his family and friends, Drath always stated that there was no-one important left in his life, and to leave it at that. His reply was not exactly true though, as there was one being who had been with him for a very long time; the demon lord Alzrius. This infernal being pursued Drath in his waking and sleeping hours. For one reason or another, it clearly thought Drath was a person of importance, despite his distaste for the damned fiend.

All Warlock’s owed their magical abilities to a being of higher power, and the Half-Elf was no different. Forced into making the pact to further the plans of his then master, Drath resented the demon, and everything that had been done to him against his will. Having spoken with other mages in his field, none described the level of perseverance and surveillance demonstrated by Alzrius when talking about their patrons. He had no idea what he had done (or what he would do) that had the thing so intent on following his progress and yanking the metaphorical chain.

All in all, Drath was tired of being pushed around like a pawn in the games of entities more powerful than him. If Strahd was willing to bring about some sort of ceasefire, then at the very least it was one less player to worry about, in the ongoing game that was his life.

Ravenloft loomed above as he approached the gated courtyard. The stone looked ancient, wind weathered and covered in Mossweed. Not for the first time, Drath considered the age of the vast structure. Having read the Tome of Strahd, he was sure that it was here long before the human conqueror came to Barovia. The scholar and historian in him wished he could examine it further, but it was considered exceedingly rude to keep a powerful host waiting.

As he passed through the stone archway, Drath saw that the blackened iron gates had been left open for him, as they were on his last visit to the accursed castle. Ever the gentleman, Strahd made sure his guests weren’t left on the doorstep as it were.

The Warlock was surprised to see a figure waiting for him in the courtyard, not something experienced on his party’s prior visit. As he grew closer a sense of dread welled in his chest, as he recognised the intricate armour unique to Strahd’s elite guard. Strong as he was, Drath knew that he would have next to no chance of taking the True Vampire down. He had barely managed to neutralise Donavich’s son, after the Vampire Spawn had been starved of blood. Ireena had congratulated him for destroying one without allies, however if he was honest the whole thing had been a mistake, and he very nearly died before their quest had truly begun.

It all seemed a lifetime ago, rather than the paltry few weeks that had truly passed. The Vistani had brought them through the foul mists to this dangerous land, and tasked them with finding the required items to end the reign of the devil Strahd. Drath thought that the whole thing was ludicrous if he was honest. Vilkas on the other hand, thought it an honourable ambition and immediately swore the group’s aid to the gypsy folk.

In the short time they had come to know each other, Vilkas had become the obvious choice for leader of their strange company. A grizzled, yet well-meaning Paladin, the man had lived most of his life as a servant of the divine good, seeking out and eliminating evil in its many forms. At first, Drath saw the man as being ridiculous. With so much wickedness in the world, how can one person even think to make a difference? However, his feelings slowly began to change whilst living and fighting alongside the man. With a constant sunny disposition, and a terrible penchant for anecdotes (few of which were ever actually amusing), a fragile bond began to grow between the Paladin and Warlock. That along with the several times the bulky warrior had thrown himself into a fight to ‘protect’ one of the party, Vilkas had become the father-figure of their rag-tag band.

If Vilkas was the father-figure then Gindna was certainly their matriarch. A Cleric by trade, the Dwarven adventurer was a follower of Ilmater, and a strange combination of compassion and battle-axe. Drath thought she would be suspicious of him as a Warlock, but her heart was certainly bigger than her axe and she took him in, with no further words than “Call me Ginny.” Her presence was a blessing, and she had healed both his pride and his injuries more times than he could count.

At the beginning of this saga, it was just the three of them, and Drath had almost begun to feel like a part of this very strange family. The final addition was made in the Village of Barovia. Indeed, the ‘introduction’ of Grundlesmit had been the main reason for Drath being left alone with a blood-crazed Vampire Spawn, in the cellar of the church.

Originally the whole party were planning to speak with Donavich, the disgraced priest, about the burial of Ireena and Ismark’s father. The plan changed however when one idiot Gnomish Rogue tried to steal the last silver weapons from the Kolyana vault. Brother and sister were furious at the insult, and begged the party’s help in catching the crook. As the most charismatic of the three, Drath was left to approach Donavich alone whilst the others hunted down Grundlesmit.

On entering the church however, he was struck once again with his almost prophetic sense of dread. The church was empty, but growling and whimpering noises could be heard. Seeking the source, Drath came across a trapdoor in front of the alter. Within he could see a priest, who he presumed was Donavich, shrinking in terror from an approaching form.

Focussing his powers to quickly cast Blade Ward and Armour of Agathys, Drath jumped in front of Donavich to face off against Doru, his infected son. Later that afternoon, he would find out that the miserable wretch had become a Vampire Spawn, having been drained and killed by a True Vampire. The boy had returned to his father, and the priest, unable to end his suffering, had locked him in the church’s cellar, to try and curb his bloodlust.

Drath had never seen a vampire in the flesh, and was taken aback by Doru’s terrifying appearance. With little humanity left, the boy had become feral, with long curved fangs and eyes as vicious as the rabid wolf. His surprise left him at a disadvantage as the spawn’s talon-like claws slashed at his chest. Luckily Blade Ward and his magical armour gave him a much-needed advantage, as the thing barely hurt him, instead recoiling from its damaging effect.

Donavich cowered in the corner as the creature sank to all fours, its teeth gnashing whilst it hissed at the offending Half-Elf. When it lunged this time, Drath dodged its attack and hit it with his favoured cantrip; Eldritch Blast. The strength and force of the magic hit Doru square in the face, destroying a part of its lower jaw.

The priest by this point had calmed slightly, and was begging the young Warlock not to hurt his son. Drath unfortunately was hardly listening as he watched in horrified fascination as the creature began to laugh through the ragged remains of its mouth. Slowly the dead flesh began to stitch back together, each muscle fibre sluggishly writhing to reattach.

It was with luck and experience that Drath had developed an exceedingly strong stomach, following the carnage in his past, else the remains of his digested breakfast would very quickly have found a new home on the stone slabs in front of him.

In the few seconds it took for the spawn to heal completely, Drath frantically tried to recall everything he had ever learned about vampires. Prior to this mad campaign, he had never really taken much interest in the undead, so was unusually grateful that his former master had forced him to familiarise himself with all manner of them, vampires included. He had it beaten into him regularly, and thus was able to recall everything he would need to know for this fight.

  1. Most vampires cannot survive in direct sunlight.
  2. Vampires cannot cross running water.
  3. A wooden stake to the heart will immobilize a vampire.
  4. True Vampires can infect their victims with the curse, where they will become Vampire Spawn on death. If the victim is bitten multiple times and dies from the curse, then they become True Vampires, as do spawn fed their sire’s blood.
  5. Magic is generally more effective than standard weapons. Only magical, blessed and silver weapons can inflict lasting wounds on vampires.



Although this took Drath only a matter of moments to consider, the spawn had fully regenerated and prepared to lunge again. Although he tried to dodge, its sharp teeth sank into the flesh of his arm, and almost without thinking, the Warlock cast Sacred Flame at point blank range, firing a blast of radiant energy into its chest. The creature fell back with a wet sounding wail, seemingly shocked that it could be injured so. 

As the Half-Elf recovered he saw the thing clutching in confusion at its chest. The blast had created a bloodless cavity, splintering its ribs and burning away great chunks of the flesh around its major organs. Parts of the trachea, bronchi and right lung had been ravaged, as well as the right atrium and ventricle of its heart. Drath couldn’t understand how the thing wasn’t dead yet, and seemingly the spawn couldn’t understand why its wound wasn’t regenerating as it normally would.

If Drath had time to think about it at that point, he would have realised that radiant energy was akin to solar rays, and thus highly damaging to vampires. In reality, the ‘why?’ was at the back of his mind, as he desperately sought to create a plan which would end this wretched creature once and for all.

As his eyes scanned the room he noticed a wooden coffin, which had clearly been serving as the vampire’s bed whilst it was down here. Made entirely from cheap wood, Drath realised that if he could smash the creature into it, he might stand a chance of plunging one of the loose shards into its exposed heart.

Had the Half-Elf’s perception been more focussed at this point, he may have noticed a dark figure standing near to the foot of the stairs, shrouded in shadow.

 

...

 

Strahd believed himself to be the most powerful vampire in existence, and as such was thoroughly unconcerned with both the sanctity of the church, as well as a petty invitation to enter. He ruled this land, and as far as he was concerned, everyone and everything in it belonged to him.

Although he knew that his recent guests to Barovia had been bought here by his faithful servants, the Vistani, he was not expecting them to engage with one of his denizens for a time yet. Imagine his surprise then, when he became aware of a struggling Vampire Spawn.

Focussing his mind, he materialised in the cellar of Barovia Village’s Church and was amazed to see the mage, facing off against a blood starved spawn single-handedly. At first the prince considered him a fool for engaging the priest’s son. Even the weakest of his children were powerful enough to outmatch even a seasoned warrior. Further to this, the imbecile failed to show more than a sliver of fear, when faced against the feral creature.

As much as Strahd liked to flout his magically restored youthful appearance, he was centuries old, and had seen this particular game play out again and again over the years. ‘Heroes’ of all ages would swear to end his existence, and bravely (stupidly) go up against one of his minions in an attempt to vanquish it. If half were ill-prepared, the rest possessed naught but misplaced bravado, each falling to the fang and claw of his servants. Strahd had no doubt that this would end the same way.

The Warlock fought bravely, but Strahd believed him to be weakening as Doru latched onto his arm. Instead the man released a blast of focussed radiant energy, which sent the fledgling reeling back to the rear of the room. The vampire lord’s eyes stung from the offending light burst, but he paid it little mind as he allowed himself a moment to recognise a long-forgotten emotion; Strahd was impressed. Either by luck or skill, the Half-Elf had remained focussed and wisely used a spell which took advantage of the primary weakness shared by all their kind.

The mage didn’t seem to dwell on it though, as he rushed it, surprising the spawn and forcing it backwards into the squalid wooden box it used to rest, shattering the feeble wooden planks. The creature cried out pitifully, an injured animal that knew it was facing its doom. Strahd was aware that it was calling for his aid, but he was far more interested in this Warlock, who seemed to defy his expectations. Blocking out the lesser vampire’s telepathic cries, Strahd watched with great curiosity as the object of his attention plunged a splintered shard of wood into his minion’s exposed heart.

The fledgling went still immediately, paralysed by the wooden shaft in its chest. Strahd almost thought that would be the end of it, as Donavich crawled forward, already in mourning of his lost son. The Warlock however had a cold and tired look to his face, as he pulled a sharpened hand-axe from his belt. The Vampire Spawn was still telepathically pleading for assistance, even as its face was frozen in a look of pure hatred. Disgusted with the pathetic creature, Strahd turned, disintegrating into mist form as he returned to Castle Ravenloft. On arrival, the spawn’s torrent of thoughts vanished, and Strahd knew that the Half-Elf had ended its pitiful existence.

Far from being angry at his kin’s death, Strahd found himself elated, as he considered the promise that this new adventurer held. Perhaps the mage’s companions held equal promise, and he would have a choice of suitable successors. He would need to put some serious consideration into the tests with which he could challenge the group. As he turned, the cape attached to his armour lifted and undulated in the breeze, a fitting metaphor he felt, for the excitement and determination he felt for the weeks ahead.

 

...

 

Brought back to the matter at hand, Drath paused to consider his options. The guard ahead was clearly waiting to receive him, but in what capacity? These True Vampires had proven to be unshakeably loyal to their master Strahd, and would follow his commands without question. Surely this meant that he was safe for the moment, owing to the vow the prince had made in his letter.

Moving nearer, the fanged smirk made the Warlock reconsider his previous assurance, as he wondered what the vow of a devil was truly worth. As he prepared to defend himself, the creature spoke to him in a cold, and heavily accented voice.

 

**“Ze Master is expecting you, and I vould advise against keeping him vaiting, yes?”**

 

Drath’s face grew pinched as he assessed the position he was in. To start a fight with this creature, was an exceedingly bad idea, however it may be the last chance he had to escape with his life. Strahd had promised his safety, for this short time only, and this was the final point at which he could trust in the word of a cruel vampire lord, or flee and take his chances with the outcome.

In the end, it all came down to the fate of his companions, Vilkas, Ginny and Grundlesmit. He even considered Ireena and Ismark, who although not quite friends, had been somewhat kind to him during his stay in Barovia. Drath was no fool, and knew that Strahd’s retribution would not be limited to him alone, if he were to refuse the man’s ‘hospitality’.

**“Varlock, I vill not ask again, ze Master knows of your arrival and is eager to speak vith you.”**

 

With that, the vampire stepped forward and held his mount’s bridle. The beast was instantly terrified, as if already sensing the aura of death around the creature. Drath struggled to stay in the saddle as it reared, and then astonishingly it righted itself and stood passively as if it were the meekest of all horses. He quickly dismounted and was able to hear the quiet chant uttered under the breath of the guard.

The Half-Elf would swear that someone had wrapped a tangible blanket of calm around his shoulders, as the tension slipped from his muscles. After a moment of standing in relaxed bliss, he noticed the amused smirk on the vampire’s pale lips, and quickly snapped out of it. Having miraculously managed to resist every charm attempt made by Strahd’s servants, Drath was not about to submit to it now. He squared up to the True Vampire and spoke.

 

**“I am ready to see your master. Kindly take me to him.”**

 

The creature scowled at him and gestured to the entrance. It seemed that the mage would have to find his own way. In the meantime, his horse was led to an open stable, as the guard began removing the leather saddle and tack - clearly they were expecting him to stay a while.

Drath was not a great believer in the kindness of higher beings, as his own patron had caused him nothing but strife. Uncharacteristically he sent a quick prayer to whatever and whomever might be listening, that his companions would be safe in his absence. He hoped that this wasn’t the end of him, as he hadn’t been able to say anything like a goodbye to them before he left. At this moment, they were likely all still asleep in the rooms at the tavern in Vallaki. He had left a short note with very little detail, as the last thing he wanted was for them to make a suicidal raid on Castle Ravenloft, looking for him. As far as they were concerned, he had a new lead on the final item, but needed to infiltrate a local group of spellcasters. If he got out alive, then he would have to make up more detail, but hopefully that would placate them to some extent.

In all honesty, Drath wished that he were with them, sleeping off the pain and horrors experienced in this accursed country. Since his first encounter with Donavich’s son, more and more creatures had descended on them at seemingly random times. Whilst travelling back to the Vistani camp, they had been set upon by no less than fifty Dire Wolves. Vilkas had fallen unconscious, and the Gnome and Half-Elf had been tasked with defending both him and Ginny as she worked to revive him.

Both warriors were bloody and exhausted by the end of the fight. Around three quarters of the wolves lay dead at their feet, as the others seemed to freeze and simply lope off, with nary a second glance at the exhausted group. Grundlesmit had finally passed out with fatigue, and Drath and Ginny had to practically drag both of their fallen comrades back to the gypsy camp, their horses having long bolted in the chaos.

In the ongoing weeks, they had successfully fought off random combinations of vampires, Hags, Wererats, Dire Wolves, Bats and charmed humans. Drath decided that Strahd was either testing them, mocking them or wearing them down until they no longer posed a challenge; perhaps all three in his opinion. All he was left with was a bitter tiredness and desire for a break from all of the strange and horrific events which had befallen him and his companions.

As the weary Warlock crossed into the Entrance Hall, he was met with candles and low lighting, making the castle seem suffocating and claustrophobic. It was probably a more comfortable light level for his host, but it made Drath feel more unsettled than ever.

 

...

 

On the exterior, Strahd was as statuesque and perfectly presented as ever. However, below the surface his excitement was building again, to the point where he decided that a good hunt was in order. It had been decades since he felt anything more than a vague interest in the affairs of his realm, and longer still since he’d enjoyed the thrill of hunting for a live victim. Previously he’d thought it was too much bother when your servants brought you limitless supplies of freshly harvested blood. If he were more prone to overly flowery descriptions he would even say that this man had managed to get his heart beating again. Impossible he knew, but here was the summit of all his scheming and power plays. This was the end of his imprisonment.

The vampire would be lying if he said that he hadn’t watched the progress of this mage from Vallaki. His familiars had acted as his eyes, ensuring that the Half-Elf was indeed coming to his castle, and that none of his minions defied their orders. Drath, as he’d come to know him, was to be left unharmed, and any foolish creature willing to defy his command, would be dealt with and offered a slow and torturous end in the castle’s dungeons.

In preparation, he had commanded his servants to lay out a path of candles to lead the man to his Personal Library. It was probably the least threatening room for a guest, and would provide comfort and privacy whilst they talked business.

Although Strahd wished to meet Drath in the Library, his patience failed him at the last minute, and he couldn’t wait to see the mage with his own eyes. Taking on the form of a bat, he flew to the Entrance Hall and perched gracefully on a rafter above the staircase. As the man entered, Strahd saw his form crackle with magical energy. Initially he was disappointed that the Warlock felt the need for protection spells, having been assured of his safety by the vampire lord. However, his second thought was in commendation of the spellcaster for his carefulness and wisdom in preparing defences to meet a Legendary Vampire. Of course, it would be no match for one as powerful as the prince, but such thinking shows he would make a good successor if given further training and the right… tools.

Further to this, the man looked disheartened and resigned to his fate, which was both concerning and pleasing to Strahd. He didn’t want a weak-willed successor, and hoped the man would gain some fire when met with the vampire’s proposal, but for the moment, a crisis of will would only help the prince to achieve his fast approaching goals.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing from where we left off.

As he followed the path of candles, Drath couldn’t help but feel that he was being watched. He shivered lightly as a wave of apprehension swept over him, preparing for the next warped monstrosity to strike. Each step felt leaden, as he ascended the grand staircase, the air feeling damp and cloying. His movements created stirrings in the ether, causing the candle flames to flicker wildly, and casting strange and threatening shadows on the surrounding walls.

The Warlock held his breath as a particular shadow seemed to writhe and undulate. He paused to consider whether it was a trick of his mind or a genuine threat and a nearby thud made Drath whirl around to face the source of the noise. A pair of cold, lupine eyes caught the lights, as large jaws opened to display a ferocious set of jagged teeth.

Drath cursed under his breath, as he felt like a rabbit drawn into the snare. He was unwise to trust that the vampire would allow him entry to Ravenloft unhindered. The Dire Wolf was clear evidence of his foolishly misplaced trust, as it growled and slavered, its burning eyes focussed on the mortal at the top of the stairs.

The creature lowered its body, into an attack stance, hackles and tail raised in aggression. Slowly it began to ascend the staircase, closing in on the mortal as per the command of its master. It instinctively knew that it was to serve as Strahd’s final test for the man above, and being both cunning and vicious, it was well suited to the task. It had lived a fierce life under the master, acting as a lieutenant in the vampire’s death squad of Dire Wolves. He and his kin had been given the run of Barovia, second only to the Legendary Vampire and his elite guard. His primary purpose was to strike terror into the hearts of locals and adventurers alike, his kin notably the most loyal and vicious servants of the great Strahd.

The Half-Elf took a moment to assess the situation and his monstrous opponent. The beast seemed unlike any other Dire Wolf he had ever come across. A wicked intelligence seemed to shine in the creature’s eyes, and if he didn’t know any better, Drath would believe the monster to have ascended from one of the hellish realms, it’s only purpose to bring pain, suffering and eventual death to those who crossed its path.

Seeing the Dire Wolf tense, Drath readied himself to dodge, his mind already reciting the cantrip for Chill Touch, an attack which could buy him more time to calculate the weaknesses of the fierce creature. He was utterly surprised when the thing instead turned tail and shot into the shadows below the staircase.

Waiting a few moments to see if it would reappear, Drath cautiously began to descend, thanking his Fey ancestry for the enhanced powers of sight which allowed a clearer view of the dark Entrance Hall. His only hindrance was the flickering candles which confused his eyes as they settled between the visible spectrum of colour and the whites and greys associated with Dark Vision.

The animal was exceedingly pleased with itself as the prey creature descended into its trap. It knew that the candles would limit the Half-Elf’s vision, making it vulnerable in the low light. The flickering flames had no such effect on the Dire Wolf, as its vision was limited to black, white and greys. It stayed in the perfect balance between bright and dark, its dusky coat an aiding factor in the creature’s clever camouflage.

As the Warlock turned his back to it, the beast crept forward, relying on the leathery pads of its feet to approach its target. When in range, it bunched its muscles to spring at the unsuspecting man, slavering at the thought of the warm chunks of flesh it would soon tear from the fool.

Drath indeed was unable to detect the animal behind him, but had wisely chosen to concentrate on protection as he cast Armour of Agathys. Cast at the fifth level, the ward would lend him a solid defence, whilst dealing heavy damage to any creature which attacked him. He was instantly relieved at having done so, when he felt only the barest tips of fangs pierce the flesh of his shoulder.

Swinging around he saw his attacker slinking backwards, as the beast shook its large head, as if to shake off some unseen malady. Clearly the armour had done its job as the Dire Wolf seemed stunned that it had come to harm from the mage.

Taking advantage of the situation, the Warlock cast Eldritch Blast at the animal, intentionally aiming at its eyes and the sensitive area around its snout. The thing roared in pain and fury as the beam struck it directly in the face, burning out its retinas and savaging a good part of its snout in the process.

It was enraged at having been wounded so, by prey no less, and rather than retreating, charged at the Half-Elf. Drath was taken by surprise at its actions, having no time to dodge or even brace for the attack. Heartened by its success, the Dire Wolf snapped and gnashed at its opponent, catching the back of the mage’s hand in its jagged teeth. Tasting blood, the thing went into a frenzy, ripping off the delicate flesh of the Warlock’s back hand, and spraying blood across the immaculate stone floor.

Drath couldn’t help but scream as the burning pain shot from his hand, up his arm and across his chest. A flesh wound it may be, but one look revealed the back of his left hand to be almost non- existent, with slivers of white bone and shredded tendons exposed. The man almost blacked out from the combined stimulation of sight and feeling, but was brought back to his present situation by the Dire Wolf’s red streaked fangs snapping far too close to his face.

Summoning his strength, he was able to get the soles of his feet under the torso of the animal, using his well-developed thigh muscles to send the beast flying backwards as he kicked out with all his might.

Cradling his injured hand, he watched aghast as the creature rose shakily, swinging its massive head back and forth whilst scenting the air. The agony radiating from the ravaged flesh caused his vision to blur dangerously, as he swung between the peaks and troughs of adrenaline bursts. If he was to survive this fight, then he would need to finish it quickly.

Thinking fast he threw one of the simple hand axes attached to his belt, not directly at the creature, but at a spot ahead of him which, if the creature was baited correctly, would leave the animal with its back exposed to Drath’s advantage.

Angry and confused at it was, the Dire Wolf fell for the trick, pouncing on the source of the noise. It expected fang and claw to meet flesh, but was surprised to find its jaws closing on thin air. It gnashed in frustration and lifted its snout to sniff once more.

The Warlock wasn’t about to give it the chance to try again though, and sprung at it from behind. Channelling everything he had into Shocking Grasp, Drath grabbed at its skull with his good hand and plunged his fingers into the animal’s ruined eye sockets.

The beast felt fear and pain as the prey sank its fingers into what remained of its eyes. Preparing to round on the insolent Half-Elf, it never got the chance, as a burning energy zapped through its brain, making it the last sensation the creature would feel.

Drath was equal parts elated with his quick thinking and disgusted at the mess left behind. The large creature clearly had more stamina and aggression than the Warlock, but not the intelligence and wisdom to best him. Drath had used his touch spell to liquidise its brain, leaving what was left pouring from the nose, ears and mouth of the dead animal into an unsavoury pool of blood and viscera on the floor below.

Unable to do much else, Drath fell to his knees as the adrenaline began to wear off, and the toll of the fight caught up with him. He could barely look at his left hand as it continued to radiate with agonising pulses. He knew it would need binding at the very least, but was understandably reluctant to act. Remembering some of the skills Ginny had shown him, he raised the hand above his head, to slow the blood flow from it.

Using his good hand, the Half-Elf removed the leather binding from his pack, as he knew the next part would be exceedingly painful. Taking a healing potion and some gauze, he took stock for a moment as he mentally prepared himself for the horrific task ahead.

He began by downing half the healing potion, grimacing at the disgusting taste and placing the leather between his teeth. Scowling as he bit down, he apprehensively began to tilt the bottle over his ruined flesh. Purchased from the Vistani, this home brew was no normal healing potion, and stank of stale urine, herbs and some unknown ingredient. He’d found it effective when used previously, but it lacked the anaesthetic properties of an authentic alchemist’s brew. In short it was going to get a lot worse before it got better.

As the first drops hit the exposed inner vessels of his left hand, the Warlock would have sworn that the Vistani had sold him an acid strong enough to melt Mithril, rather than the promised potion of healing.

…

Strahd looked on with cool indifference. This afternoon he was intent on honouring his promise in the letter, but his pride persuaded him that a final test of his prowess was in order. The mage had succeeded, defeating one of Strahd’s most vicious Lieutenants. The Dire Wolf had been extraordinarily loyal, and a useful asset to his rule. Fortunately for the prince, everything and everyone barring himself was expendable, and the creature had fallen to Drath, as the vampire had hoped.

Drath was evidently able to fight with both his power and his cunning, two important attributes of a feared ruler. Strahd already possessed boundless amounts of both as, after all, the vampire lord had needed to be equal parts brutal and wily to overcome his perfect brother Sergei. 

The Legendary Vampire was brought back to the present, by the agonized noises below. Judging by the sounds he emitted, Drath was clearly suffering from the pain of his injuries, although his howling was muffled by the leather. Strahd wouldn’t exactly say that he enjoyed the music of anguish, but he could appreciate the constitution demonstrated by one who could endure and overcome it.

The Half-Elf’s hand was visibly shaking with harsh tremors as the last drops of the potion seeped into the raw wound. On completion, he tore the indented leather from his mouth, just in time to retch onto the floor in front of him. Strahd was less than pleased at the combined mess of disintegrated brain, blood and vomit on the once immaculate floor of his Entrance Hall.

As a soldier, he was used to the various emissions witnessed in the fury of war, but it certainly did not mean he relished seeing them spread about his home. He sent a telepathic signal to his charmed servants to clean the mess and dispose of his Lieutenant’s body once Drath had moved on. The smell was absolutely nauseating to his enhanced senses. The blood and gore was fine, the real culprit was the combined aroma of fresh vomit and the Vistani’s disgusting brew of the gods-know-what.

Satisfied that the Warlock would proceed as planned, Strahd elegantly detached himself from the rafter he was perched on, and flew silently to his Library, where he would await his guest.

…

As he wiped away the sticky strand of saliva and bile, Drath was seriously considering turning around and walking straight back out of Castle Ravenloft. The prince had plainly gone back on his word, and this whole thing was some ridiculous game of cat and mouse. No matter how many times he thought himself done with the whole business of being pushed around like a game piece, it kept coming back to this sense of utter inevitability. Why he ever thought he could change his fate in the first place was beyond him.

Having weighed his options though, he thought it better to press on than face Strahd’s elite guard outside. After all, why be killed by the cubs when you could be the prey of the tiger? Shaking his head in frustration, Drath rocked back to his heels as he finished the job of bandaging his hand. The potion had already started the work of knitting the ragged membranes back together, but the Half-Elf wasn’t convinced he’d regain full use of it - Just another memento of his shining stay in Barovia.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aim of this chapter is to flesh out Drath's character a little more. His background is exactly as it is in our real-life play, as our group specifically went for the 'tortured souls' vibe for the dark campaign. The other characters in Drath's party are my own creation, but based around the personalities of my friends.

Drath was surprised to find his progress to the Library slow but uneventful. He refused to be caught up again in one of the prince’s gruesome traps, and made sure to check every dark corner for potential threats. Finding none, he was more on edge than ever, believing Strahd to be saving something especially grim just for the Warlock.

He was right in a way, as the Legendary Vampire did have something very special in store for the mage, Drath just wasn’t aware of it yet.

As he continued along the corridor, led by the eerie lights of the flickering candles, the Half-Elf didn’t fail to notice the premeditated display of wealth and nobility set before him. The carpet covering the floor ahead was made from a rich material, the colour a deep and luxurious shade of red. Lining the walls were a mixture of family portraits and scenic landscapes, showing a land and a people of another, happier time.

A striking painting of a beautiful young woman caught his eye. She possessed the tell-tale features of a Barovian, with dark almond eyes, and long, soft, black hair streaming either side of her pale neck and bosom. Drath would almost swear that the image was a mirror of Ireena, if it were not for the soft expression and the label on the frame. ‘Tatyana’ was etched delicately into the setting, and the Half-Elf thought back to the history revealed in the ‘Tome of Strahd’. Tatyana was the name of the prince’s long-lost love, driven to her death from the walls of Castle Ravenloft by the disturbing murder of her beloved Sergei and the horror of the prince’s vampiric visage.

Ismark had mentioned the Legendary Vampire’s obsession with his sister Ireena, and now it began to make sense. Clearly the fiend had seen the doppelganger of his darling Tatyana, and thought to rectify the mistake made centuries ago. He knew from experience that Ireena was anything but a willing participant in Strahd’s fantasy. If she had the chance, she would sooner remove his manhood with a silver blade before she let him get anywhere near her.

Drath thought back to a happier time; an evening spent by the camp fire getting to know his comrades and the two siblings. Ireena had been shy at first, but her steely determination served to make her seem both ferocious and impossibly attractive. Her brother Ismark was less impressive, but, by the gods, if he wasn’t a great drinking companion. The man could drink an Orc under the table, and his embellished stories and anecdotes about the siblings’ coming of age were undoubtedly some of the funniest accounts he had ever heard.

From skirmishes with dreaded twig monsters (turned out to be an angry badger caught up in a dead bush) to the infamous theft of the sanctified festival sweet roll from Barovia Village’s fearsome baker (they ran a successful distraction con and made away with the sugary goods), Ismark’s stories told of a better time and place. However, as Ireena matured, so did Strahd’s attentions, leaving the young siblings to grow old and grim before their time, having witnessed the horrors of his obsession.

If they had shown interest, Drath wouldn’t have had a second thought about taking either one to his bed, but the opportunity had never presented itself, and the Half-Elf was not the type of man to risk a working relationship for a night of pleasure, however gratifying.

Moving on from the portrait of Tatyana, the Warlock came face to face with the dark ruler of Barovia, his image quite removed from the creature he and his companions had come to know. This painting had clearly been commissioned before the prince’s dreadful transformation, as his skin was almost sun-kissed and his bearing considerably less sinister than the current version. In this work, he stood in fine, detailed armour looking beyond the scope of the artist’s hand. His dark hair was neatly swept back, and a small smile played on the man’s face, as if privy to a wonderful secret. Drath wondered what had occurred to twist this noble soldier into the cruel and chilling creature that consumed life and emanated death.

The features of this Strahd exhibited nobility and leadership, not traditionally handsome, but a man to be respected for his wisdom and dignity. He would guess that the prince was around thirty-five years of age in this image, but his eyes exuded experience and had a sage-like quality to them. Perhaps this was an artist’s false representation, and the vampire had always been the twisted and harsh thing Drath had encountered, but of all things, the potential of this revelation and insight into Strahd’s humanity chilled him to the core.

It was this discovery that caused tendrils of fear to seep into the Half-Elf’s being. He thought he had come to terms with the cruelty of the world, and the evil of many within it, but the horrors of the last few weeks had truly pushed him to the brink of his sanity. Panic began to build as he looked towards the antique wooden door at the end of the hallway. Instinctively he knew that this was where he would meet the man who had become monster. A trembling anxiety swept over him, as he feared the inevitable.

Drath struggled to remember if he had ever experienced the terror and repulsion that he felt at this moment. Even when the Orcish war-band had attacked his family’s homestead, murdering his father and enslaving the young boy and his mother, he had managed to contain himself for her benefit. The brave face had lasted only as long as she lived, cracking piece by piece as the brutes raped and tortured her in full view of the young Half-Elf. After her death he had found fear evolving into bitterness and anger at the Orcs, the gods and every other damned creature that had taken everything he had from him.

Strahd disturbed him like no other creature could, evoking frightening and long forgotten emotions as his body and mind suffered under countless damaging encounters. His head roiled, swinging between anger, terror and devastation, as the Warlock struggled to centre himself. He might have failed in the endeavour if it wasn’t for the thrice-damned devil Alzrius trying to push his agenda again. The fiend pulled at his mental chain, trying to gain control over him. Drath immediately snapped back to resolute and grim determination. He had lived with this thing for decades, and he refused to allow it access now.

The devil wouldn’t give up though, as debilitating pain riddled his head. He could feel its fury at being denied, and squeezed his eyes shut at the sensation. He wondered what it would mean to give in to its influence, but his innate stubbornness stopped that thought from gaining leverage. This was his curse to bear, and he swore it would never get the better of him. What he didn’t know was that Alzrius rivalled Strahd in his penchant for plotting, and this was all part of an elaborate scheme to gain power. Drath’s fate had been predicted many years ago, and the demon was advised by his seer to take advantage of the opportunities which would shortly present themselves.

Drath swept down to one knee, as he methodically rebuilt his mental wards, channelling a great deal of strength into the effort. Alzrius continued to prowl his mind, looking for any chink in the armour constructed to keep the fiend at bay. Drath knew that he was at a considerable disadvantage, should any physical threat materialise. The hallway was open and exposed to any passing monster, and Drath didn’t think he could handle a physical attack whilst battling his mental demons.

He knew the only option was to give in to his fury, borrowing strength and aggression from all the misfortune in his life. He slammed his injured hand into the portrait of Strahd, pain and anger flashing though his vision as he screamed, reopening the fragile wound. He raged at Alzrius, Strahd, Dire Wolves, Vampires, monstrosities and everyone and everything he could think of that had ever done him wrong. He raged at himself for being too weak to protect his family and his friends.

The tantrum was surprisingly effective, as his rage reinforced the walls in his mind. Drath was still his own man, and had slammed the devil back into a box deep within the walled corridors of his head. Sweat poured down his back as he panted heavily at the exertion. The gauze on his hand was saturated in blood, and it ached terribly, but the pain was familiar and grounding.

He glanced up at the portrait, the bottom of which was clearly damaged and coated in syrupy blood. As the light caught on the liquid, it almost looked as though Strahd was standing on a sanguine mount, the once regal scene a prophetic parody of horrors to come. The Warlock cursed under his breath. This foolish excursion had been a disaster from beginning to end, and he questioned Strahd’s wisdom in choosing him specifically as the party’s representative. So far, he had managed to ruin a portrait of the prince and kill what was probably a favoured pet. He frowned with the realisation of his ever-decreasing life expectancy, and regained his feet, leaning against the wall of the hallway as he recovered his bearing.

Feeling that he couldn’t keep the vampire lord waiting any longer, Drath walked forward with a resigned purpose, getting closer to the antique wooden door. It was beautifully carved with all-manner of exotic birds. However, the undisputable focus was at the centre of the panel; a regal avian creature rising from realistic flames. All the other birds paled in comparison with the detail and presence of the Phoenix. Its wingspan stretched to the top of the door, sharp beak raised to the sky as if bolstered by the inferno below it. Closer inspection revealed that gold leaf and amber had been used to accentuate the scene. Each feather had been painstakingly finished in gold, and the semi-precious amber shone in the animal’s eyes.

The scene was a clear representation of rebirth, and the metaphor was not lost on the Half-Elf. A phoenix rising from the ashes was meant to represent good luck and prosperity. It shed its old, weak form to become young and strong again, and thus exhibited the cycle of life and the seasons. The resurrection of the vampire was nothing like the glorious rebirth of the Phoenix, as the foul creatures brought death and sorrow, where the legendary bird brought life and joy. It was a twisted and parasitic abuse of the legend, and Drath shuddered at the implications.

The mage considered knocking, but dismissed the idea immediately as with nothing left to do he favoured a direct approach. Taking hold of the handle, he steeled himself and entered the lair of the monster.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're still building up to the big event in this chapter, but there's still a bit of action and suspense as we go forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say thank you to Anna for the review. It’s lovely to receive such positive feedback, and I hope you continue to enjoy the writing.
> 
> The story is still fleshing out as I go on, so there’s a little more background in this chapter, but I hope you’ll find the ending worth it.

**Chapter 4:**

Strahd was not a man known for his magnanimous nature. Having returned to the library, he expected the adventurer to join him with little delay. The vampire had waited a long time for this scheme to come together, and he was filled with annoyance at having to wait. Pacing in front of the grand fireplace, he considered whether he had been too quick to decide on his successor. After all, how could anyone compare to the prince and his glorious achievements. He had been a conqueror long before his immortality, and not one person alive could consider themselves half as powerful as the Legendary Vampire. Every creature in Barovia feared him, and submitted to his will. His authority was unquestioned, and it was simply not done to keep him waiting.

He grimaced in annoyance as a fly circled tantalisingly close to the web of an old spider in the corner of the room. The arachnid watched patiently as the insect teased it relentlessly, coming close but never catching in its trap. The spider was old and clever though; it had learnt to bide its time.

The rich smell of fresh blood permeated under the door to his Library, and he was momentarily lost in the scent. As a human, he had always enjoyed a good wine, able to discern the particular notes and body of his beverages. As a vampire, he had pursued blood in the same way, tasting and categorizing the textures and flavours, a perverse sommelier. The aroma which greeted him now was complex and full-bodied, exotic and intriguing.

Few knew that a whole host of variables can affect the flavour of blood. Much would come down to the provenance of the sample; where it was born, its race and genetic make-up. Further intricacies such as health, diet and hydration levels all left their mark on the palette, with a final embellishment of chemicals released from the brain. Adrenaline for example, left a subtle but invigorating sharpness. Arousal was rich and heady, the combined influence of dopamine and testosterone leaving a fine Merlot on the tongue. Fear and stress were salty and bitter, with cortisol flooding the body and giving a hearty and savoury flavour. The list was endless and culminated in one of the few interests Strahd still enjoyed pursuing. He considered himself an experimental artist, and had utilised his charm abilities to induce new combinations of flavour in his prey.

The prince’s own blood tasted like ash on his tongue, however his thralls and servants craved it like a drug. He rarely allowed them a taste, only using it to gift the best of his minions with additional power, and even then, a drop was all that was provided. In readiness for his meeting today, Strahd had already blended a mouthful of blood into the finest wine in his possession. It sat on the table near to the fire, the full-bodied red catching the flickering light. The bottle was decorated with gold and gems, fit to hold the rare and potent mixture within.

The vampire’s eyes narrowed as he heard the floor creak just beyond the door. The Warlock hesitated and Strahd smiled, imagining what he saw. He had commissioned the carving just weeks after he gained immortality. He thought it a fitting metaphor for the new life and power he had gained. Like the Phoenix, the prince had regained his youth, and he outshone everyone with his strength and power. Like the other birds, they all paled in comparison to his glorious rebirth. And like the door scene total, he would rise above them all, becoming god amongst men as the Phoenix was god amongst animals.

After a moment, the handle dipped and the fly caught in the spider’s web.

…

Drath was surprised to find the room warm and softly lit. There were candles dotted around, and a roaring fire set in the large fireplace. The walls were lined with ornate bookshelves, filled with leather bound volumes, all immaculately preserved. A detailed map of Barovia lay spread out on the nearby desk, as well as parchment, quills and ink.

There was little doubt in the Warlock’s mind that this room was very personal to Strahd. Everything around him belay the personal touch of the vampire, from a well-worn leather armchair, to the tome lying open on the cabinet next to it. A small table sat on the grand rug in front of the fireplace. Set upon it was a finely varnished mahogany chess board, complete with intricately carved pieces. At a glance, the Half-Elf could make out the quality of workmanship, the black court created from what appeared to be ebony, and the white from ivory, both shining in the light from the fire. To one side of the board sat a gem encrusted bottle of wine, as well as two crystal glasses.

Drath’s mouth watered at the thought, the foul aftertaste of the Vistani healing potion still clinging stubbornly to his taste buds. On arrival to Barovia, his party had been told that there was a shortage of wine after the Martikov family disappeared, their winery taken over by evil Druids. Although he and his companions had routed the unwelcome squatters, there was no sign of the family, and nothing more could be done. He struggled to remember the last time he had partaken in anything other than the watered-down ale they served in this accursed country.

The mage straightened and set his stance as he realised that he had once again let his concentration lapse. As ‘cosy’ as the Library was, he couldn’t allow his guard to keep dropping as he tried to second-guess everything the vampire did.

If Strahd had noticed him, then he didn’t show it as the prince stood in front of the grand fireplace, his back to the Warlock. Drath was unsure of how to proceed, wary of annoying his powerful host. Surely, with such sharpened senses, he would have noted the Half-Elf’s entrance as soon as he came through the door. Unsure of how to proceed, the mage decided he would await instruction, and chose to examine the vampire further.

This was not the first time he had seen the creature in the flesh, indeed the Legendary Vampire seemed to take great interest in he and his companions, showing up at the most inconvenient of times to watch their struggle. Drath first noticed another presence as they set off from the Village of Barovia, to escort Ireena and Ismark to Vallaki. At first, he thought they were being haunted by a shadowy phantom, the spectre never seeming to emerge from the mists and get close enough for him to make out any features. The ghost never materialised though, just popped up here and there during the long nights, as if watching and waiting for something.

He only realised that they were being observed by Strahd after they had successfully delivered Ireena and Ismark to Vallaki. Grateful to be back in what passed for civilisation in Barovia, the adventurers had agreed to rest for the evening, drinking and swapping stories in the Broken Bell Inn. Vilkas and Ginny retired just before midnight, however Drath decided to stay up with Grundlesmit to keep an eye on the Gnome. The Rogue had ‘made friends’ with a group of burly locals, and had challenged them to a drinking competition. The Warlock couldn’t see this ending well, and so paused his drinking to watch proceedings.

If you have never had a drink with a Gnome, then you would be forgiven for thinking that their alcohol tolerance would be fairly low, based on their smaller stature. The reality however, is that Gnomes are exceptionally hardy and able to weather even the strongest of beverages with ease. This was a trait that the Barovians soon came to realise, but not before three of them had lost what little money they had to the Gnome, as he won wager after wager.

The barmaid thought it hilarious, as Grundlesmit had drunk each one under the table, and seemed to have only developed a slight sway for his trouble. The brutes didn’t think it quite so funny though as they slunk off to a corner table to nurse their damaged pride, and developing hangovers. What concerned Drath was the whispers and pointed looks they continued to throw the oblivious Gnome as he postured and preened, chatting up the serving wenches.

After a short while, the Rogue made his excuses and walked outside the inn to relieve himself. Unsurprisingly the three locals followed, and Drath sighed, finishing his drink and going after them. The Warlock saw them disappear around the side of the building into a filthy alleyway. He approached cautiously, and narrowly avoided the large body which hurtled past him to land face-first into a pile of horse manure in the street.

Leaning his head around the corner, he saw the other two brutes looking past him in confusion, as Grundlesmit grinned maniacally. His smile soon disappeared though, as the largest one roared and turned on him unexpectedly. He picked the Gnome up and threw him hard against the wall of the inn. Drath rushed towards them as the thief grunted with the impact, but then he righted himself on landing and dashed into the shadows at the end of the alley.

The two thugs looked on in confusion for the missing Rogue, but their expressions turned darker as they set on the Warlock. Drath hesitated whilst deciding on his next course of action. He had explicitly trained as a battle mage, and even his weakest attack spells were powerful enough to kill an unarmoured and untrained opponent. Vile as these men were, they were still innocent humans, and didn’t deserve to die for a drunken mistake.

He had to think quickly though as he could see them preparing to attack. If the Half-Elf couldn’t kill them, then the only other option was to try and talk his way out of this situation. He didn’t think that they would be easily intimidated in their alcohol-fuelled state, but he could at least try and reason with them.

Drath raised his hand in what he hoped was a placating gesture, and suggested that they take a moment and consider what they were doing. Their eyes narrowed, and the mage thought for a moment that it was working, continuing to speak slowly and calmly, suggesting they go on home to their families.

Unfortunately, at this point, a feral Gnome descended on the larger of the two, balancing on the brute’s shoulders as he pummelled his ears. The Barovian man howled in pain and anger, scrabbling at the small fiend to try and get him off.

The other tried to rush Drath, running at him with teeth bared and hands stretched out to grapple the dumbfounded Warlock. The Half-Elf managed to manoeuvre out of his way, as the thug ran straight into the wall behind him. Soon enough he was back on his feet though, tensing to charge again.

In the few seconds that had passed, the Gnome wasn’t fairing so well. The brute he had attacked, had managed to get hold of his leg and throw him into some nearby boxes. This time luck had failed Grundlesmit as he caught his head on the edge of a wooden crate, and promptly passed out. As if to add insult to injury, a third figure then joined the group, as the man from before had returned to his friends, seething and stinking of horse shit. This left three very large and very angry drunk men bearing down on the mage.

Despite the threat of violence, Drath desperately detested the idea of leaving Vallaki with (somewhat) innocent blood on his hands. He could try and intimidate them, but three against one were not good odds by any stretch of the imagination. The only thing which could scare them off at this point was if Strahd himself stepped out of the shadows.

With sudden realisation, the Warlock formulated a quick plan and cast Prestidigitation on himself. He had never tried to use the Cantrip in this way, and prayed that it would work out as intended. He used the spell to give his teeth the appearance of the long, curved fangs that he had witnessed fighting Doru, the blood crazed Vampire Spawn in Barovia Village’s Church. He also created the illusion of talon-like claws and glowing yellow eyes to complete the look.

He did his best hissing growl, and gnashed his teeth at the three, hoping that they would be fooled by the trick.

It worked better than expected as the largest of the three immediately wet himself, the stink of urine strong in the alley. Drath saw the eyes of the manure-covered man roll up into his head, as he made a strangled noise and promptly fainted. The third man whimpered and tugged at his wet companion, edging them both out of the alley as the Warlock snapped and snarled at them.

With that, the mage let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders visibly relaxing as the danger passed. He approached Grundlesmit, carefully lifting him whilst checking the wound on his head. Unsure of whether the Rogue had concussion, he lifted an eyelid and was relieved to see the pupil dilate. The Gnome’s mouth opened and Drath almost dropped him in shock as the thief produced the loudest and most rumbling snore the mage had ever heard. Chuckling to himself, the Warlock lifted his companion and slung him over one shoulder as he stood to exit the alleyway.

However, he paused as a sound came from behind him. He turned expecting one of the thugs to have returned for their unconscious friend. What the Half-Elf saw though, was the figure that had been haunting the party’s movements, emerging from the oily shadows. Even with his Dark Vision, Drath could not yet make out the face of the creature approaching, as if obfuscated with magic. He could see that it wore an elaborate breastplate, the design unfamiliar in its style. It was decorated with golden swirling designs, surrounding what looked to be a large oak tree. He was unsure whether the thing was friend or foe, and the Warlock’s shoulders tensed.

Realising that his cantrip was still active, he bared his teeth at the figure, attempting to intimidate it as he had done with the local thugs. Drath was alarmed to hear it chuckle, as it continued to advance towards the mage and his unconscious ally. He was struck by a sense of fear and dread as the thing got closer, more of its features becoming recognisable as it stepped further into the light.

The realisation struck him like a palpable sheet of ice. Their primary antagonist was stood before him and Drath believed that he was about to die. He wanted to run but couldn’t force his muscles to move, and his heart beat painfully in his chest. He swallowed audibly as the Legendary Vampire approached. It seemed intent on him, walking forward with an air of authority and power.

When Strahd reached the unconscious man on the ground, still coated in excrement, he looked down and sniffed in disgust. The vampire gave him a swift kick to the ribs, not to kill the local but as if to show the prince’s distaste. His gaze then returned to the horrified Half-Elf, and he continued to advance towards him.

As the vampire got closer, Drath backed himself up against the wall of the inn, instinctively trying to make himself smaller as if that would save his life. Perhaps it worked, as the prince’s gaze slipped from him to the mouth of the alley as he looked out onto the street beyond. He held his breath as Strahd walked slowly past him and out into Vallaki’s market place, releasing it only when he thought that the vampire had gone.

He felt foolish for exhibiting his little parlour trick to the Legendary Vampire, as if the appearance of fangs and talons were anything but a laughable joke to the ruler of Barovia. The Warlock chuckled nervously to himself as he adjusted his snoring companion on his shoulders. Now that the danger had passed, there was a perverse thrill to meeting the powerful creature and walking away with his life.

The excitement immediately dissipated though as he felt a presence behind him, and heard a dark whisper behind his ear.

**“A striking sight indeed. They suit you little mage.”**

Drath ran and didn’t stop till he and Grundlesmit were safely in their room with the door and windows barred against the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drath remembers when everything went wrong. There is also finally the promise of biting and M/M themes developing in the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, apologies for the late update. I’d love to be able to set a schedule for this, but most of my inspiration comes from the real-life Curse of Strahd sessions we play, and they’re not always regular.  
> It’s quite a long chapter, but I included a lot of what took place in yesterday’s session. It’s all been streamlined and changed slightly to fit in with this version of the story, however I can confirm that:  
> 1\. Our group did go up against the Night Hags, and we were practically slaughtered.  
> 2\. I genuinely did call on Strahd and invite him in.  
> 3\. He took care of all three Hags whilst we were (usefully) stuck to the ceiling.  
> 4\. I managed to roll a natural 20 against the odds in a persuasion check against Strahd, and did indeed send Drath in the place of Ireena.  
> Basically I can confirm that my D&D superpower is throwing the spanner, screwdriver and the whole toolkit in the works for the DM.

 

**Chapter 5:**

Drath was determined to hold his composure, even as the memory triggered another spike of fear, deep in his gut. He had never felt so unsure of anything in his life, as the scene in front of him gave thoroughly mixed feelings of warmth and dread. Strahd had still not addressed him, and all the Warlock could do was wait for something (anything) to happen.

The vampire was not wearing his usual attire, the ornate armour and cape traded for more casual finery. He still exuded an aura of elegance and confidence, his white shirt and riding breeches impeccably tailored to best fit his shape. The Half-Elf could see that his long black hair had been swept back and loosely tied with a navy ribbon, revealing a glimpse of flawless alabaster skin. Drath’s curious nature led him to wonder if all vampires were this domestic. If he survived this he would surely have to document his experiences; ‘ _Blood and Soft Furnishing; Encounters with the Domestic Vampire_ ’ by Drath Briarmane. It was certainly a humorous thought, and the mage had to supress a smile, wondering at what point he had lost his mind in all of this.

Drath’s attention was snapped back to his current situation as a low chuckle sounded from his host. His shoulders tensed as the vampire turned his head to give the Warlock a sidelong glance, eyebrow arched in cool amusement.

**“What strange thoughts you have little mage. If you would care to sit with me, I would be happy to answer any pressing questions about my… tastes.”**

With that he gestured towards the table laid out with the chess board and wine.

Not waiting for a response, Strahd walked forward and seated himself in the fine leather armchair to one side of it. Drath had always considered the possibility that the Legendary Vampire could read minds and intentions, and was devastated that a careless thought as bizarre as this one, had been picked up by the prince.

With little else to do, the Half-Elf steeled himself and cautiously approached. The chair looked surprisingly comfortable, and despite its obvious age, the leather had been well looked after, showing few marks or cracks.

As he went to sit, Strahd cleared his throat whilst looking expectedly at the mage. With a start, Drath realised that he had not removed his boots and cloak, his manners all but forgotten in the odd situation. He grimaced and turned away to try and conceal his rapidly reddening cheeks.

**“I apologise for my discourtesy, please give me a moment, this situation is a little overwhelming as you can imagine.”**

Without waiting for a reply, Drath walked over to the mahogany hat stand which he had missed on entering. He felt the vampire’s eyes on him as he carefully undid the clasp from his cloak, removing the garment and hanging it neatly on one of the varnished hooks.

Next, he bent down to unbuckle the leather boots, dismayed to see that in his anxiety he had walked blood and dirt into the Library. He knew that Strahd was terrifyingly unpredictable, and hoped that his carelessness would not cost him his life. Drath remembered watching the prince decimate three Night Hags, his traditional allies, with little more than an air of indifference.

Thinking back, it was one of the times Strahd had actually been a temporary ally, albeit an unintentional one.

…

After everything that had happened in Vallaki, Ismark felt that Ireena would be better off back in Barovia Village. He still had to fulfil the duties passed on to him from his father, and decided that Ireena was in marginally less danger in their village than in the backwards, accursed settlement near the lake. Unfortunately the decision was made late in the day and their small band had been caught out by dusk and the encroaching darkness. Barovia was dangerous in the daytime, but the very worst of its creatures always came at night, and with no cover and rapidly decreasing options, Ireena had suggested they entreat the owners of the Old Bonegrinder. She explained that all native Barovians respected the need for shelter in the night, and the inhabitants would surely honour the custom.

Drath would have sworn that he could smell the tangible odour of an extremely bad idea, but it was surely better than risking their necks once the sun set. Everyone but Grundlesmit felt increasingly uneasy as the group approached the run-down windmill. Perched along the wooden beams of its exterior, dozens of beady black eyes stared down at them, the silence deafening as not one crow made a sound. The sails of the mill were ragged and disused, rotten fabric swaying in the slight breeze; all-in-all the place looked about as welcoming as a mausoleum.

Ginny began to chant to her god, the prayers barely audible as if the words had been stolen by the wind. Grundlesmit remained oblivious to the apprehension shared by the rest of the party, and began whistling a Gnomish tune as he strode up to the door, raising his hand and rapping three times on the wood.

After a short while, a female voice came from behind it, speaking in the Barovian dialect. Ireena translated and explained the woman was fearful that the group had come intending harm to her and her sisters.

Unfazed, Grundlesmit decided that the best course of action was to pick the lock and open the door to show that no harm was intended. As soon as they realised, the whole band attempted to convince him otherwise, but the Rogue had already worked his magic and kicked the door open, grinning like a madman and introducing himself to the terrified girl stood just beyond the entrance.

She screamed and spoke rapidly in Barovian. Although he had no idea what she was saying, it was clear that Grundlesmit’s plan had not worked out quite as intended (surprising nobody), and instead all he had managed to do was horrify the young girl with his entrance.

Ireena and Ismark both stepped forward, with their hands open in the universal sign of pacification, speaking softly and slowly to try and calm the girl. They seemed to be having some success until Vilkas walked in behind everyone, his scowl and great axe drawn and ready.

With that she screeched and fled up the stairs, leaving a surprised Rogue and Paladin in receipt of a very stern telling off by Ireena, both looking extremely sheepish.

Whilst this was going on, Ginny and Drath had broken off to examine the room. It was a huge mess, with mounds of clutter scattered throughout. Nothing overtly suspicious, however it seemed their unwilling hosts were hoarders of the highest degree. In one corner was a huge lit oven, and the mage could see some type of meat pastries baking slowly. There was something distinctly odd about the smell though, the juices from the meat giving off an almost sickly odour as they bubbled atop each pie.

Suddenly everyone turned to face the entrance as someone tutted and spoke sharply in Barovian. Standing there was a middle-aged woman in a bedraggled woollen cloak, holding a basket of herbs and mushrooms.

Ireena walked forward and spoke to the figure, moving her hands in what appeared to be an apologetic manner. After a brief discussion, she sighed and turned back to the party.

**“This woman is the head of the household and has been deeply offended at the circumstances of you being here. She is rightly upset that you have frightened her sister, and wishes for you to leave immediately. I have reminded her of the honourable custom of providing shelter to visitors at nightfall, however she feels that you have invaded her home, and as foreigners she owes you nothing.”**

On hearing this, Grundlesmit rushed forward, pulling out his dagger and threatening the woman, who, rather than being intimidated, looked irritated by his show. Ireena was understandably frustrated and confused at the Rogue’s antics, as she began cursing him in a mixture of Barovian and common slang.

Drath sighed as he saw nobody else was going to act. Stepping in he pushed the Gnome behind him and asked Ireena to translate, the woman’s piercing eyes narrowing as they focussed on him.

**“Please forgive our intrusion in your home, it was never our intention to frighten your sister. I’m afraid my friend was a little overzealous on account of night falling, and we feared for our lives.”**

Ireena smiled at him as she began the translation, something he took for a good sign. After she had spoken, the lady tutted again before saying something else. It didn’t sound good, but Ireena didn’t seem too concerned.

“ **She says that your apology is accepted, and the party forgiven as long as they do not cause further trouble. However, she is still unwilling to allow you shelter, as she and her sisters can barely afford to feed themselves, let alone six other people. They are but simple bakers with little income, and this mill is all they have.”**

Drath thought for a moment, then pulled five gold pieces from his belt pack. Although it didn’t seem like much, he had learnt that gold had more value than the local Barovian currency, and would go a long way for someone struggling to raise an income.

**“Perhaps in light of our previous actions, she would also take this gold as a gift to smooth relations, and cover the inconvenience of our stay?”**

The woman seemed to understand Drath’s intentions as she took the gold and introduced herself.

**“My name is Morgatha, your speech is… hard but I try to learn, yes? We thank for coins, you and they may stay, but must stay down here for my sister, she is young and very afraid. We have no food but Baklitas for selling tomorrow. One each if you wish. We will sleep soon, stay down here and leave at first light.”**

With that she deposited her basket and walked to the oven, removing the tray of pastries and placing them on a metal grid on the table opposite. She gestured at the pies and then at them, then swept upstairs, pausing a moment to sneer at the Gnome as she passed.

Looking to the window, Drath felt some relief as the sun had now set completely. Ireena and Ismark congratulated him as the group began to settle in for the night. Grundlesmit had already approached the warm pastries, but luckily Ginny stepped in and stopped him from taking one. Neither she or the Warlock could put their finger on it, but something seemed very wrong with them, even though they looked perfectly baked.

Having communicated this to the group, everyone agreed that it was better to be safe than sorry, as they tucked into the rations gained from Barovia village. After a long day, each was eager to turn in for the night. They organised a watch and Ismark volunteered to take first shift.

Drath had managed to get a few hours of rest before Ginny woke him. He was surprised to see that she had taken some time to carve the symbol of her deity into some of the wooden beams supporting the wall. At first, he was exasperated as their relationship with Morgatha and her sisters was not exactly a good one, and this was certainly not going to help matters. Though he couldn’t deny that looking at them had a slight positive impact on the strange aura which permeated the Bonegrinder.

Saying nothing of his feelings, he bade the Cleric a good rest and took a seat to one side. The mage turned his head to look through the window at the night sky beyond. He could see the moon from his vantage point, and estimated that it was around midnight, judging by its positioning.

As the minutes ticked by, he noticed the party were breathing long and slow, as if in an incredibly deep sleep. Drath was a little surprised that they had found peace in the circumstances, however it was reasonably warm in the mill, and the going had been difficult so far. He watched each of his companions closely, to ensure that nothing else was amiss, and dismissed it when nothing further occurred.

His watch continued in much the same way, until he went to rouse Vilkas for the next shift. The man was never easy to wake, as he seemed to be able to sleep most things off, but the Half-Elf failed to get even a murmur from him. What began as gentle shaking, gradually increased to the point where Drath even gave him a firm slap to the face to try and issue a response.

He tried the same tactic on each of his friends in turn, not one of them stirring at his actions. As he was working on Ismark, a noise came from behind and Drath whirled round to face it. In front of him were three women, the first clearly Morgatha, then the young woman and an older lady with a stick. They seemed surprised that he was still standing, and the Warlock was silently thankful for his Fey Ancestry which made him immune to sleep magic.

Acting quickly, he went to throw a Fire Bolt at the three, but was dismayed to see each turn ethereal before his eyes, his blast hurtling through them and shattering the cabinet behind. His disbelief left the Half-Elf at a disadvantage as the eldest rushed at him with surprising speed, bashing him up the head with her stick.

Drath felt the pain of the impact, seeing flashing lights and then darkness as he fell to the floor, knocked out for the time being.

When the Warlock came to, he was in a windowless room, the walls made of thick roots and vines. He found himself trapped in a cage made of the same greenery, and saw that his companions were all in a similar predicament. The mage heard a deep growl and turned his head to see the form of a large beast pacing in the corner. From where he was in the room, he couldn’t see very clearly, but it seemed to be some kind of dog. Its actions were strange though, as its growls and movements were nothing like any dog Drath had ever seen.

From the cage next to his he heard what sounded like Vilkas, speaking in a quiet tone.

**“It’s a Hellhound lad. Nasty creatures as they guard their master’s like… well like a Hellhound. Ye and the others have been out for a while, so I’ve been watching it and considering our situation. I’m sure those women upstairs are Hags, and powerful ones at that. It’s a bit a’ bad luck ending up here, but I think I might have figured a way out.**

**I reckon the beast is a familiar, left to keep watch over us whilst they prepare upstairs.”**

Drath thought it a silly question, but asked it anyway.

**“Prepare what upstairs?”**

Vilkas sighed heavily.

**“Just be glad we didn’t partake of the pies lad.”**

With that the beast walked into the light, gnawing on something. It was pure black, with stunted ears and a mouth full of yellowed fangs. As Drath squinted to better make it out, he could see it had a large bone, with scraps of rotten flesh hanging from it. As he continued to examine it from a distance, he saw the bone was connected by withered ligaments to what appeared to be a foot with a child’s shoe on it.

Dawning realisation hit the mage as nausea bubbled, threatening to make him retch. If he had inferred Vilkas’ words correctly, then the pastries upstairs were filled with… No, he didn’t want to think about it.

**“How could anyone...?”**

He took a deep breath to try and quash the panic and disgust surging through him.

**“So, what’s your plan?”**

Between them, the Warlock and the Paladin were able to escape the cage of roots, utilising Drath’s magic to weaken the structure as Vilkas threw his weight against it.

The Hellhound immediately set upon them, but despite it’s terrifying appearance, it was surprisingly easy to take down, as it was especially weak to holy and radiant damage. Interestingly, it began to dissolve as it died, and as it did one eye popped out and began to roll out of the room of its own accord.

Disgusted, Vilkas slammed his foot down on the orb, the outer membrane bursting under the pressure as the jelly erupted forth. They both heard a pained scream from upstairs, as the resulting mess began to sizzle, magical energy dissipating from it.

With that, the pair set about freeing their companions, the Sleep spell seeming to wear off with the destruction of the strange eyeball.

The Hags had obviously been overconfident when dealing with them, as they hadn’t even bothered to remove the weapons and armour from the party. They took a moment to discuss the situation, sharing what little knowledge they had about Hags and covens, then made their way out of the basement room, ascending the winding steps which would lead them back up to the Bonegrinder.

When they reached a trap door, Grundlesmit offered to go first as he was the best of them at going unnoticed. Stealthily he made his way up and disappeared for a moment. The party began to worry as some minutes passed, until suddenly his head popped over the threshold and he motioned for them to come up.

Everyone was wary, entering back into the main room of the mill. Whilst here earlier, they had missed the trap door concealed under a threadbare rug, and had no idea of what lay below them. Vilkas began to make his way towards the stairs, but Drath was able to grab him before he made the first step.

**“Vilkas we need to get out of here. Even with all of us here, I don’t think we can defeat the Hags. Whilst you were asleep, I saw them and they have a mystical power which makes them ethereal. We’ll be slaughtered.”**

The Warlock was surprised to see Vilkas looking at him with disgust. He had thought it logical to escape now whilst the Hags were preoccupied, and hadn’t expected there to be much argument.

**“Are ye such a coward lad that ye wish to wash yer hands of this? After what we’ve seen?”**

Drath stuttered in response.

**“N… No, I just… What can we possibly do against them? We were brought here to destroy Strahd, these women mean nothing to our quest.”**

The Paladin’s eyes narrowed as he sneered and spat on the floor at the Half-Elf’s feet. Drath was equally devastated at the harsh response from the man he looked up to, and dismayed as Vilkas roared a challenge to the sisters upstairs. This wouldn’t end well, but he couldn’t abandon his companions.

He saw the group ready themselves as the maniacal cackling began. It seemed to come from everywhere, intensifying as the room began to twist and distort. Ginny cried out as she was lifted from the floor, hurtling to the ceiling and pinned by an invisible force. Ismark was next, followed by Grundlesmit, as one by one each was flung and held in place against the walls. Drath hopped back in horror as the floor below him was set alight with a sickly green flame. The next minute he too was picked up and pressed against the ceiling next to Ireena.

He had enough presence of mind to cast False Life, to magically bolster his health, ready for the inevitable fight which was about to take place. At this point, each one of the Warlock’s friends had been pinned to the wall as the green fire flickered and danced, lighting the room and creating grotesque shadows.

He saw movement down by the stairs as three ghostly figures descended from the upper floor. Morgatha was at the head of the three and smiled wickedly as her sisters chanted whilst weaving the illusion spells which ensnared the group.

She stepped forward and addressed them, her voice twisted and distorted almost beyond recognition.

**“You come to our home, insult us, put wretched glyphs in our walls. You will pay the price for your rudeness.”**

She then continued in Barovian, and Drath saw Ireena’s eyes widen in fear. Unable to ask, he predicted that what would come next would see the end of their expedition.

Morgatha then gestured to her sisters, who put their hands on her shoulders. The witch’s eyes lit up with a blue crackling energy as she focussed. Drath recognised this spell and braced himself, anticipating the pain. With a flourish of her hands, the Hag cast Lightning Bolt, and a blue crackle of energy exploded outwards, hitting each member of their party.

The mage squeezed his eyes shut as white, searing agony ran from the tips of his fingers, out through the bottom of his boots. He heard the others cry out in pain, as the Hags cackled with perverse delight.

He tried in vain to struggle against what was trapping him, and saw the others were having about as much success. He glanced to the side and Ireena was gasping, she looked as though she was going to pass out at any moment. Blood was running in a steady stream from her ears and nose, and he realised that she’d been hit worst of all from the bolt.

Thinking quickly, Drath realised that there was only one chance which could spare them from an agonising death. Everyone in Barovia feared the Legendary Vampire, so perhaps he could use that knowledge to force the Hags to let them go. With few other options, the Half-Elf summoned his courage and shouted down to them.

**“Hags, do you not realise whom you attack? This young woman is the beloved of Lord Strahd, and we are her protectors. If you value your lives, release us immediately and allow us to leave your home. If you do not, then I fear the penalty from our lord will be a painful and brutal execution.”**

Drath’s companions were shocked and horrified at his speech. He knew that he was playing with fire in speaking to them thus, but he felt it was the only thing they could do. Ireena would die if she was hit again, as would more of his friends before the night was through. This was the only viable option.

Morgatha paused for a moment, as if considering his words, then floated up to where he was being held. She spoke in Abyssal, and although his language skills had been mostly neglected whilst in Barovia, Drath was able to understand her.

**“Pretty words Warlock, but Strahd holds no power over us. He would not dare to interfere in our business. We are his sisters in the night, and he values our allegiance. We do as we please.”**

With that she slashed at him with long, gnarled claws, tearing ragged gouges in his face and neck from temple to collarbone as he hissed in pain.

She then moved across to Grundlesmit, and as the mage looked across to his comrade, he saw the Gnome shaking with fear, tears trickling down his face. There was no shame in it, as everyone was equally frightened, and the Hags presented a terrifying presence.

Morgatha spoke quietly to the Rogue as he whimpered and tried to escape the invisible bonds. Drath couldn’t quite make out what she said, but the next thing he knew, his friend released a broken wail as the witch thrust a talon the length of a small dagger into his stomach. Blood poured from the wound, and he cried out in fear and agony as she flexed the embedded nail within the Gnome’s gut.

His friend was dying in front of him, Ireena was dying next to him, Ismark, Ginny and Vilkas were trapped and waiting to die, unable to act. With little else to do, Drath committed to his plan.

**“Lord Strahd, if you can hear me, I extend you an invitation into this horrific place. These Hags dare to think that they know you and have power over you. They intend the death of your beloved Tatyana, reincarnated, and believe that you will not lift a finger. Show them otherwise.”**

Vilkas roared at him in anger and betrayal, and even Ginny looked horrified. He wanted to communicate his plan to them, but all eyes were drawn back to their friend as his wails began to fade, the torture too much for his mind as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Morgatha turned back towards the Half-Elf with a feral look to her features, coming closer with bloodied talons outstretched towards him. Assuming his plan had failed, Drath squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the agony he was about to endure.

**“Sora! Morgatha! Este Ofelia ... a dispărut!”**

The mage’s eyes flew open again as he glanced at the other witch. She shuffled nervously, her eyes rolling wildly as she attempted to seek out her missing sister. She had spoken in Barovian and he had no idea what was said, but Morgatha immediately turned from him and he realised that the old woman had gone. It seemed that she had been responsible for the green fire, as that too had dissipated.

In the next moment, all eyes turned upwards as the floor above them squeaked as something walked slowly across the boards. The noises reached the top of the stairs and Drath held his breath as first one, then a second black leather boot began to descend. He had hoped that this would be the outcome, but the accompanying sense of dread that grew in his chest was almost unbearable.

As Strahd continued to descend the stairs, the Hags began shrinking backwards towards the walls of the mill. They had gone from creatures filled with perverse glee, to a horrifying husk of their former confidence. Their eyes bulged in terror, as their hands shook, recognising the danger for what it was.

The vampire in contrast revealed none of his emotions. He expression was as if sealed in stone, giving nothing away other than a sort of piercing focus on the two women, cowering before him.

The younger of the two shuffled forward and dropped to her knees in a supplicating pose.

Strahd smiled coldly at her and arched an eyebrow at the display.

**“My lord, welcome to our humble home we…”**

Her head hit the floor before she could finish her sentence. Drath’s mouth was agape as he had no idea how the Legendary Vampire had beheaded her. One moment he was stood above her looking thoroughly unimpressed, and the next he was tasting her blood from his fingers as the witch’s head rolled in a sporadic line towards her sister.

Before he had time to brace himself, he and his companions fell to the floor, the invisible bonds disintegrating.

Morgatha screamed in anger as she attempted to rush the prince. At this point the vampire’s eyes narrowed as he raised his hand and wagged his finger at her. She froze in place as he walked forward, examining her from all angles before returning to his previous position. His grin was chilling as he raised his hand once more, snapping his fingers. Seemingly out of nowhere, rats began to swarm around her. More and more of the rodents appeared, and they began climbing her legs until every part of her body was covered in wriggling, oily fur.

The last Hag let out a muffled scream as the filthy creatures went into some sort of frenzy, and Drath saw blood beginning to pool on the floor. The noise was horrendous and Drath had to cover his ears, fearing he would go mad with it if it continued much longer. Finally, a sharp snap could be heard over the din, and the rats obediently began to leave their quarry.

The Warlock looked up and regretted it as he saw the savaged remains of the witch. The majority of her skin had been gnawed to the bone, her eyes were gone along with nose, lips, ears and all other features that may have identified her as anything but a bloody skeleton. It was almost too much when the carcass uttered a low moan, suffocated in blood. Strahd stepped forward and spoke quietly into the cavity that had once been an ear, lifted his hand and then proceeded to crush its skull with little effort.

With the final Hag dead, Drath and his companions began to rise where able. Ismark rushed to Ireena’s side, whilst Ginny went straight to the dying Gnome, sobbing whilst she worked on a Cure Wounds spell.

Strahd meanwhile, cleaned his bloodied hand on a cotton handkerchief, and began walking slowly towards Ireena’s prone form. Seeing this, Ismark stood protectively and Vilkas jumped forward, issuing a warning to the approaching vampire.

**“Ye won’t take her, I’ll die before you touch a hair on the lassie’s head.”**

The Paladin growled menacingly but Strahd looked less than impressed.

**“Be careful what you say warrior, your death can be easily arranged.”**

The prince raised his hand, but before he could act, Drath stepped in front of his friends, Vilkas’ eyes narrowed towards him.

**“Haven’t ye done enough lad? I can’t see that he needs is’ arse lickin any more than what ye’ve already done, and the lassie needs friends around er’ now, not cowards.”**

The Half-Elf’s heart sunk at the cruel words, but he steeled himself, and allowed a cold and indifferent mask to take his features. Turning to Strahd he saw that he had gained the vampire’s attention as the prince’s face displayed a flicker of interest.

**“My lord, my companions and I are no match for your power, and you can take what you want. I find myself in your debt however as you have helped us out of an unfortunate situation. I can offer very little in return other than the wisdom of an independent mind.**

**As I understand it, this woman is the image of a loved one, lost long ago. She may look the part, but is it not true her mind is that of the Lady Ireena Kolyana and she is rightly terrified of you? If you were to take her now, she may feel entrapped and come to hate you for your part in it. Perhaps if she was given some time to consider your courtship, she would be a more willing partner? Our quest is to deliver her back to her home, where she can feel safe. We will tell her that you saved her from the Hags, and away from the bad memories of Vallaki, perhaps she will come to see you as her protector rather than a threat.”**

Drath knew that he was gambling with the highest stakes he had ever played. If this failed, Strahd would likely kill all of them and take Ireena back to Ravenloft. He was relieved that the vampire did appear to take a moment to consider his words. Soon enough the prince’s piercing gaze returned to him though.

**“You make an interesting point, but I stand to lose in the bargain. Instead I offer you a choice. Give me Ireena or offer another of your party in her place, to return to Ravenloft with me.”**

The Half-Elf was anxious and disappointed. He was expecting the vampire to say yes or no, and the possibility of another outcome had failed to cross his mind. He looked around the room. Vilkas was scowling at him, whilst the rest of the party looked confused. Drath felt that there was only one choice he could make.

**“I will accept your bargain. Take me in her place.”**

Vilkas swore and spat at the ground again, the Warlock turned towards him with sadness in his eyes.

**“I didn’t know what else to do. You were right when you said I was a coward. I was terrified of losing you all and I won’t watch my companions die. Judge me if you wish but I’m not sorry for what I’ve done.**

**Good luck my friends.”**

Drath turned his back to shelter himself from the looks of his comrades. He hoped that they would understand, but he couldn’t bear to witness the aura of disappointment which he had experienced just prior. Ginny looked confused and heartbroken. She had succeeded in stabilising both Grundlesmit and Ireena, but it was clear from her expression that she was torn between her loyalty to Drath and the rest of the party.

Ismark was equally conflicted, grateful that the Half-Elf had taken Ireena’s place, but disgusted that he had made a deal with the devil of Barovia.

Vilkas’ expression was hardest to read. Moments earlier the Paladin had been so angry with the Warlock. The two things he detested most were cowardice and disloyalty, and the mage had shown both today. He wanted to believe that Drath’s words were genuine, but he was a Warlock after all, and was used to making deals with devils if it was the easiest option. 

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to wish ill on the man, and he had sworn that he would protect the party at the cost of his own life if needs be. The Paladin found himself unable to say anything as the Half-Elf walked slowly towards Strahd, his head down, resigned to a horrible fate.

The vampire seemed strangely pleased with proceedings, curious to witness the outcome. It was like a master’s play of chess; each piece moving to try and stay in the game. The Warlock was just a pawn, but the true value of such a piece is in its ability to become much more powerful if it overcame the odds.

He looked towards the old warrior.

**“You and your companions will safely escort Ireena to Barovia Village if that is where she desires to go. I will return for her soon, and I expect her to come willingly. In the meantime, the mage will be my guest at Ravenloft.”**

With that he turned back to the Warlock, swept his cape across him and was gone. Drath thought he heard Ginny crying out his name, but he couldn’t be sure as a strange feeling came over him. He was afraid of what was to come, but the relief was also overwhelming as he knew that he had saved his friends, at least for the moment. He felt himself pressed tight to the ornate armour of the vampire, though his vision was obscured by the fabric of the cape, and he could hear nothing but wind.

After an exhausting night, it was almost peaceful and his eyes began to close as the adrenaline started to fade and his body began slowly repairing itself. They snapped open again at the feeling of elongated teeth sinking into the soft skin of his neck. The initial pain was a throbbing agony which paralysed him, as a cold sensation emanated from the bite. He was surprised then to feel it slowly recede, as the sensation went from burning cold to soothingly cool, and then on to a soft warmth.

When Strahd had said that he would be a guest at Ravenloft, he thought he might be spared this, and cursed his luck at the situation. This was surely to be his death, maybe even a horrific rebirth as a Vampire Spawn, a mindless beast in humanoid form. He was angry, but had to admit that there were probably worse ways to go. The bite barely hurt now, and instead a pleasurable tingling feeling spread throughout his body. He was dimly aware that he should be terrified of the vampire, but Drath had never felt closer to anyone in his life. It was as if all that mattered was the bond of prey and predator, and the peace that came from playing out this ritual as old as the earth. He was told that souls are unable to move on in Barovia, due to the evil that permeates, however a final thought took him as he realised that Alzrius would be unable to claim it for his own. Even with his soul trapped, he could at least rest, free of the strings and influences of his infernal master. His awareness was fading slowly, and he was looking forward to finally getting some respite.

He was disappointed then when the fangs receded and Strahd spoke to him. Barely conscious he had to strain to hear what was being said.

**“I am experienced in bargaining, little mage, and I always ensure that I receive what is due to me. I will not kill you, yet, but I intended to feed tonight, and you have been a splendid treat. Now sleep.”**

And Drath was dead to the world.

…

Strahd smiled darkly, watching the Warlock shudder as he remembered that night. It was the first time Drath had felt the bite of the vampire, and he absently scratched at the area, as if the puncture marks were still there.

He had rather enjoyed the company of his mage, and the memory of the Half-Elf’s blood was tantalising, even now. It was a pleasant distraction from the monotonous cycle his unlife had taken over the last centuries.

The prince leant forward, reaching for the bottle. Staring at it, he took a moment to consider what would happen next. The man standing before him was bound to him now, but there was still the matter of his mortality to take care of. Originally Strahd had planned to give the Warlock the ultimate choice, but curiously the man was not afraid of death. Half of his elite guard had been offered the same one, but it was their fear which drove them to embrace his generous patronage.

No matter, after all what was a vampire without the ability to seduce? The prince had little doubt that freedom was what Drath desired, and that was exactly what he would promise.

Beckoning his guest closer, Strahd poured him a glass.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment of truth as it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, apologies that it’s been a while, but our sessions have been really messed up recently due to holidays and what not.
> 
> Also, we’ve had a bit of bad news as our current DM won’t be able to spare the time to carry on the campaign after next Thursday (14th) due to some work issues (sad face). One of our other friends has expressed an interest in taking over so hopefully we’ll still be able to continue in a slightly different format, but that may affect my plans for the story.
> 
> Either way I promise to finish it, but it does mean that updates will continue to be intermittent I’m afraid, so please bear with me. I tend to sit down and write large chunks in one session as that’s just my way, so hopefully it will be worth your wait.
> 
> Also, as promised, the M/M is definitely something to be aware of, as it really ramps up in this chapter.
> 
> So without further ado, Chapter 6 for you:

**Chapter 6:**

Drath’s chest heaved as he tried to clear his head and slow the frenzied arousal coursing through him. He had never experienced desire like this and it was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

Behind him, Strahd leisurely mouthed at his throat, arms encircling the young Warlock and effectively trapping him in place. He did not bite down, instead choosing to tease the mage as the barest hint of fang traced Drath’s pulse in an infuriatingly sensual manner.

In front, Zsuzsanna pressed herself against him, the soft contours of her body in perfect contrast to the battle-hardened planes of his own. She pressed her lips to his temple, dragging them slowly downwards, her actions developing from shy touches to the forceful claiming of his mouth. She kissed him deeply until the Half-Elf’s breath came in ragged gasps, the dual sensation of the prince’s gentle play and her carnal strokes driving him further into the cloud of desire which had overtaken his senses.

Seemingly satisfied with her work, Zsuzsanna threaded her fingers through Drath’s short hair, encouraging him to proceed, his lips trailing from her jaw, down past alabaster throat, until they reached the milk-skinned swell of her bosom. Choking on air she didn’t need, she moaned and uttered a soft Barovian curse under her breath. The Warlock’s hands traced feminine curves as he worshipped her breasts, his blood-warmed skin stoking the desire emanating from her core.

Drath was almost lost to sensation as a low growl sounded from just behind. Strahd did not like being left out, and felt positively ignored by the couple in front of him. In leaning down to play with Zsuzsanna’s ample offerings, the mage had bent his neck at just the wrong angle, impeding access.

In retaliation, the vampire lord spun the Half-Elf within his grasp, forcing him into another bruising open-mouthed kiss. If Drath had ever paused to consider the implications of kissing the vampire lord, he would have assumed it to be a dreadful experience, like mouthing at a corpse. The reality was anything but however, as Strahd’s kiss was warm and demanding like the best lovers are.

The prince’s high-born heritage shone through, as he sought to take control of the situation, dipping the mage backwards, as the Legendary Vampire nipped and licked lightly at his mouth. One hand was gripped firmly behind his head, the other trailed lower, offering long, sensual touches down the Warlock’s back.

Zsuzsanna whimpered at the loss of contact, as the warm Half-Elf sank further into her lord’s embrace. A spark of jealousy flared in her gut as the potential mate was stolen away from her. Strahd had requested her presence, intending a joint attack of seduction on their hapless victim, but his inability to share was grating.

She hissed lightly, attracting the gaze of her sire. His eyes narrowed dangerously at her as his mouth continued to worry at the lips of the young mage.  Refusing to back down from the obvious challenge and potential meal, she stepped forward, seeking to mirror the prince’s game.

Zsuzsanna was one of the few female elite guards under Strahd’s command. Deadly as she was beautiful, she had once been a mercenary hired by the locals to take care of their vampire problem. Talented, even as a mortal, she had confidently entered Castle Ravenloft and dispatched several of its most horrific denizens before finally meeting the feared lord of Barovia.

To her surprise, instead of attacking the intruder, he had instead invited Zsuzsanna to dine with him. Much like Drath, he was impressed with her skill and had offered her a place of power within his household. Tempted by the promise, she fell prey to his seduction and they had mated several times before her heart stopped that night and she was born fully into darkness.

They had been occasional lovers for decades since then, but that had all stopped with the discovery of Ireena. Her master had become obsessed with the filthy human, and Zsuzsanna had been denied her pleasure for months, up until the telepathic call she received not an hour ago.

She pressed in close to the Warlock, nuzzling his neck as the fingers of her right hand slipped deftly under his clothing, long nails teasing across his stomach, drifting lower until they came to rest in the soft patch of hair above his manhood.

Drath moaned at the contact, caught between the two vampires and unsure of whether to press forwards or back. Heart pounding against his ribs, he couldn’t hear much beyond the strained noises of debauched desire; heavy groans and gasps emitted from his own mouth between demanding kisses.

Suddenly a deliciously sharp pain bit through his conscious as he tore his lips from the Legendary Vampire’s, to look over his shoulder. Zsuzsanna had sliced a thin gash across his shoulder, and was tonguing hungrily at the dribbles of blood bubbling forth, her nail still pressed into the wound to prevent it from clotting. The sting was soon replaced with a soothing coolness, as she continued to lap at it leisurely, akin to a domesticated house cat with a bowl of thick cream.

Zsuzsanna knew that she was playing with fire, inviting punishment for her insolence. Aware that she was taking out her frustration on the Half-Elf, the elite vampire was not as gentle as she could have been, enjoying his grunt of pain as she dug her nail in further.

That was all it took, as the Warlock was dragged from her grasp, pulled tight against Strahd’s chest as the vampire growled at his impudent childe, long fangs bared in threat.

Drath was equally fearful and aroused at the situation, with a dash of confusion added in for good measure. One moment he was pressed snugly between two of the most skilled partners he had ever had, the next witnessing some sort of silent power struggle between them.

Surprisingly Zsuzsanna did not retreat immediately, merely sizing them both up as she sniffed haughtily. Strahd said something in Barovian, the icy tone of his voice making the mage shiver. The elite vampire looked as though she would say something in response, but merely sighed and turned away, exiting the Library with her head held high in a small act of defiance.

The Half-Elf felt the tension recede from the prince’s body as she left. Drath turned to face his remaining partner, and his chin was held gently in the vampire’s grasp.

**“Please forgive the poor manners of my childe. She serves me well, but her rebellious streak is mildly amusing at most. Zsuzsanna tests my patience more than any other in my court.”**

Strahd’s voice dripped with charisma and seduction, and Drath had to look away to avoid being taken in by his spell.

At the start of this bizarre encounter, the Warlock had wondered whether he had lost his mind, and finally become ensnared in the vampire’s Charm magic. Sadly, his resistance was still impeccable, and he only had his own mortal weakness to blame.

…

Drath steeled himself as he approached the prince, warily sitting in the offered seat. Strahd’s gaze was unnerving, as he stared with great interest at the man before him.

The mage reached hesitantly for the offered glass, his mouth dry and craving a taste of the rich wine. He was surprised then when Strahd placed a hand atop his own, stilling its movement as he spoke.

**“My friend, before you quench your desire, I would have you know why I have asked you here.”**

Drath thought it an odd choice of words, but forgave his host considering it was not his native tongue after all.

**“I am indeed curious and would be grateful if you would enlighten me.”**

The prince smiled and relaxed into his chair, the Warlock left the wine untouched as he too sat back.

**“As you have already realised, I have been watching your little party for some time. I have an… understanding shall we say, with the Vistani, and they occasionally bring new blood to my lands. It is important to reinvigorate the supply; however, I have a much more personal interest in visitors to Barovia.**

**You are of course familiar with my tragic past, having rather rudely pried into my personal documents.”**

Drath’s breath stilled a moment, terrified that this was all some elaborate plan to make an example of him for daring to read the Tome of Strahd. The vampire smiled cruelly, seeing the effect of his words play out on the mage’s features.

**“Do not worry yourself so, such things are a minor inconvenience, and indeed you know but half of the story. That is perhaps for another time, yes?”**

The Half-Elf blinked at the bizarre image generated in his head from the implication of the two sharing stories like old adventuring companions. He had the presence of mind to remain silent as the prince continued.

**“For the moment, all you are required to understand is that I have been trapped in these lands for centuries. I am very old and very bored, and I find myself searching for a loophole which can facilitate my departure.”**

The Warlock took a few seconds to absorb what was being said to him, trying to understand where he fit in all of this. Strahd noted his confusion, but continued unaffected.

**“Once a century or so, a visitor comes to my land showing such promise that I cannot help but take note. Usually I offer them a place within my court as part of my guard, along with the power and… freedoms that go along with it”**

The prince paused a moment, seeing the flash of interest from his guest, Drath’s pupils dilating in the low light. He had read the mage like an open manuscript, the proof of his observational skills before him. It was time to press the advantage.

**“You however, have been quite different from what I am used to. I have experienced the best of heroes and bounty hunters, each one on a quest to end my existence. All displayed great skill in combat, as well as bravery and intelligence. What makes you stand out is the wisdom with which you handle each situation.”**

A delightful flush of pink tinged the Half-Elf’s cheeks, at the unexpected praise, however he was not fool enough to be taken in so lightly. Under the ‘care’ of his former master, Drath learnt that kind words often preceded great pain or humiliation, and he was wary. Strahd immediately picked up his guest’s change in countenance, igniting a spark of annoyance.

**“Mark my words Warlock, I do not say such things to flatter you. Kindly respect my right to speak freely in my own home.”**

The words had a dangerous edge to them, and Drath cursed himself for being so easily read. Schooling his features into a more neutral appearance, he quickly apologised.

**“Forgive my ignorance lord, it was not my intention to offend, I am merely surprised to hear such things from a being with your… status.”**

Strahd observed him coolly for a moment, before allowing himself a wry smile.

**“I shall continue then.**

**If you are willing to assist me, I am prepared to offer you a greater power and freedom than any have experienced from me before. I have been searching for a successor for many, many years and all have been found wanting up until this point.”**

Of all the things Drath had been expecting from this meeting, this offer had never even crossed his mind. His gut reaction was to refuse; after all he had sold his soul before, and look at how that had turned out. A niggling sensation at the back of his head prevented him from saying that outright though. Was it truly a case of better the devil you know? Alzrius had plagued him for much of his life, and after the horrors he had experienced in this land, the Half-Elf was beginning to give up hope of ever breaking his pact with the demon.

**“I… I don’t really know what to say. I was never expecting to be offered a choice like this.”**

Strahd laughed darkly, his predatory eyes never leaving the young man in front of him.

**“Oh, little mage, your sense of humour is astounding. After everything I have been through to get to this point, you honestly believe that you have a choice in the matter?”**

The Warlock’s face fell as the true realisation of the situation struck him full force. Still smiling, the vampire continued.

**“Clearly from your expression I can see that you were perhaps serious. Disappointing, but I am sure I can offer what you seek.”**

The malevolence in the True Vampire’s face was unmistakable.

**“Here is your choice; join me and I will provide you with infinite power, freeing you from the shackles of your demonic pact, whilst preserving your admirable talent for magic. I am also feeling gracious, so I will allow your companions to leave Barovia with my blessing, safe from both the mists and the creatures of the night, never to return.”**

Drath swallowed audibly as the weight of the vampire’s words settled in his gut. Without thinking, he allowed himself to speak up.

**“And if I refuse?”**

The prince leant forward, his smile widening to showcase the deadly curved fangs within.

**“If you foolishly choose not to accept my gracious offer, I will have you escorted back to your pitiful companions, then have each one butchered in front of you. When I deem that you have enough of their blood on your hands, I will kill you myself and add you to my collection of spawns. From then on you will be naught but a mindless beast, a warning to any who oppose my will.”**

With a hint of sarcastic malice, Strahd’s eyes narrowed to focus cruelly on his guest.

**“I would recommend choosing your next words wisely my friend.”**

At that, Drath was unable to school his features, expression morphing from rage to fear and eventually defeat - the parody of choice leaving only one viable option.

In his weakness, he had briefly considered accepting the offer, but the mage would inevitably have rejected it, valuing his humanity above the kind of freedom Strahd was offering. Unfortunately, the faces of Grundlesmit, Ginny and Vilkas flashed across his mind, and he knew he would do anything to keep them safe. The dark threat to the Warlock’s friends was the final nail in his coffin, so to speak.

Despite the despair building within, the Half-Elf took a moment to push his roiling emotions aside, attempting to look at the situation from a cold and clinical view point. Strahd was not a man to be trusted, as evidenced by his earlier empty promises of protection - the back of the Warlock’s hand ached dully as if reminding him of such. He needed a guarantee from the vampire that his friends would be safe, but the way to go about securing it was unclear.

Setting his features into an unreadable mask, he raised his eyes to meet the piercing gaze of his host.

**“It seems that I find myself with but one option then. I cannot pretend that my companions mean little to me, for their protection is a responsibility that I will not shirk, and if you can indeed guarantee their safe escape from these accursed lands, then you may have me in whichever capacity you see fit.”**

Strahd could not prevent the smirk which grew at the mage’s words. The three adventurers meant nothing to him, and if sending them away assured his guest’s compliance then it was a negligible price to pay.

It was a heady combination; the crushing victory and the mage’s somewhat suggestive words, and a white-hot bolt of arousal seared through the vampire, as he wallowed in his success.

Pressing the advantage, he reached forward to lift the crystal glass before him. He paused, holding it out as if indicating his desire for Drath to join in toasting their new ‘agreement’.

Drath sighed in defeat and leant forward to collect his own glass. What had previously represented the promise of welcome refreshment, now served as a metaphorical mark of his downfall. Looking at the vividly crimson liquid, his mouth no longer watered at the sight as the last fragile glimmer of hope fizzled out. With little enthusiasm, he raised the glass to his new ‘master’ and brought it to his mouth.

His mind and stomach continued to twist, and he half expected that he would have trouble keeping it down in the circumstances. As the wine touched his lips however, he was surprised to find it rich and warm, coating his tongue and throat as he unintentionally took several swallows of the mixture, pausing only with the need to draw breath.

The drink was like nothing the Half-Elf had ever experienced; a myriad of flavours playing out as his tongue chased the last stray drops from his lower lip. It started out as bitter with a copper-metallic edge, but quickly transformed within his mouth as if through alchemy; the taste developing into a sweet and almost buttery essence. The Warlock was by no means an expert in fine wines and beverages, but this was easily the best he had ever tried.

Brought to his senses by a low chuckle, he opened his eyes, unsure of when he had closed them. The prince was watching him over the rim of his own glass, one eyebrow quirked in amusement at the mage’s reaction.

**“A delightful vintage, is it not?”**

Drath had to lower his eyes, embarrassed.

**“I would not have you look so ashamed my friend, take your pleasure where you can, else you will find eternity a punishing affair.”**

His voice had dropped to a silk-baritone, and the Half-Elf could detect little inflections of desire as the Legendary Vampire spoke.

Leaning forward, his host reached for the bottle as if intending to refill the now empty vessel still clutched in his hands. He was surprised then when the vampire stood, other hand extended towards the mage in silent demand.

Drath couldn’t help but eye him warily, unsure of Strahd’s actions. When the vampire made no further movement, he slowly placed his glass on the table and took the offered hand.

The prince gave a half-smile and smoothly pulled the young Warlock upwards so little more than an inch separated them. The man gasped, pupils dilated in terror as his heart pounded against his rib cage.

He was positive that the next moment would see deadly fangs driven deep into his throat, every muscle tensed in readiness for the pain. Drath’s entire being wanted to struggle, to get away, but remembering the agreement he did naught but grit his teeth and grudgingly bare his vulnerable neck to the vampire.

Bracing himself for the next agonizing moments, the Half-Elf was unable to conceal a small, panicked grunt as Strahd released his hand, trailing it upwards till it rested solidly at the juncture where exposed throat met gritted jaw, tendons pulled taught in grim anticipation. He did not expect to feel the prince exerting controlled strength to turn his head, eyes opening in surprise as he was once again face to face with the powerful lord, the lip of the bottle pressed gently at the opening of his mouth.

When the vampire saw that he had the man’s attention, he tilted the bottle, allowing more of the wine to flow forth as his guest’s eyes slipped closed once again, enslaved to the taste of it.

The intimacy of this position was not lost on Drath, however he couldn’t find it within himself to care as the warm liquid coated his tongue once more, soothing his frayed nerves as he drank it down. He felt the alcohol take effect, worries slowly dissolving in wine and dark magic. In his daze, he failed to recognise the slow trickle of red escaping from the corner of his mouth, the contrast vivid against skin which had not seen sunlight for months, paled by dark nights and thick-misted days.

The bottle was drawn away, empty now save a few stubborn drops left clinging to its interior. The Warlock panted heavily, brain and lungs desperate for air now that the itching thirst was sated. He had hoped that the oxygen would help clear his addled senses, but no beneficial effect was forthcoming.

The mixture had taken decades to perfect. Blended perfectly with wine and traditional Barovian spices, it concealed the coppery tang of the Legendary Vampire’s blood, making it much easier to introduce to an unsuspecting addition to his court. One taste was generally all it took to make a True Vampire, but he needed the mage to be more than the ordinary stock, if he was to stand in lieu for him.

There was an addictive quality to it, an ironic twist from the Dark Powers, known for their ridiculously cruel sense of humour. As he was cursed to hunger for the taste of mortal blood, so too would mortals be cursed to hunger for his. He supposed it was rather poetic in a way, but it had been the cause of several unfortunate inconveniences in the past; his intended childer falling on him like rabid dogs in search of another taste.

They had never truly posed a challenge, but he had lost one or two along the way when all parties had become somewhat overzealous. It was less of an issue now though; at the very least it served as an effective tool in his seduction, especially once he had perfected the mixed quantities.

Having finished the bottle, the prince was rather impressed that the Half-Elf was still standing. This was an especially potent batch, meant only for the young mage, and he would certainly be feeling the effects of both the strong alcohol and powerful blood.

This was the perfect time to take advantage of the situation, the man rendered pliant and suggestible even with his strong resistance to charm magic. Wishing to overwhelm the Warlock’s senses before he came back to them, Strahd called on Zsuzsanna, one of his most clever and attractive childer. Between them he would have no choice but to give in to desire, submitting to the will of his master.

The prince took a moment to admire the handsome features of his new servant, his Elvish heritage matching perfectly with his human genes. Pureblood High Elves had always possessed an almost ethereal glow, making them seem untouchable. That coupled with soft angles and the typical waifish Fey figure, Strahd couldn’t help but dislike them for their natural and timeless beauty.

Drath was different though, his body and features more akin to a human of high-breeding than a half-blood Altmer. Blessed with lean musculature, a strong jaw and dark, apprehensive eyes, his humanity made him attainable, and more importantly, corruptible. Only the pointed tips of his ears gave him away, barely concealed by black hair, strands styled into a short and messy soldier’s cut.

The vampire’s eyes slipped downwards, focussing on his mouth. The Warlock’s lips were perhaps thinner than was traditionally thought appealing, made more severe by the deep frown lines inflicted by a gruelling life. To one side of his mouth, a thin drop of the crimson liquid had trailed down past his chin, and gathered at the top of the throat.

Swooping down to capture it with his tongue, he felt the mage stiffen and gasp at the sudden movement. Fear-scent was thick in the air and Strahd relished in it, sliding one elongated tooth against the skin, goose pimples rising in its wake. Trailing his mouth upwards, he followed the taste of his own blood up to the Half-Elf’s lips, claiming them in a brutal kiss.

Drath tried to flinch away, horrified at the prince’s advance. He found himself unable to move though, his head held firmly in place by the hand on the back of his neck. The vampire dropped the bottle, freeing his other hand to grasp at his mage’s back, trapping the two together in carnal embrace.

The Warlock opened his mouth to protest, however the vampire exploited the momentary weakness to dip his tongue into the warm wetness, chasing every drop of the blood-wine. Sucking lightly at the Half-Elf’s bottom lip, he drank in every panting breath.

Despite the token resistance, Strahd was delighted to feel the unmistakeable press of arousal against his thigh. The heady drink had clearly done its work, infusing the mortal with desire.

Finally, the prince drew back, grinning in triumph at his startled prey as Drath tried to compose himself, eyes hooded and cheeks tinged with warmth.

**“Tell me little mage, will you take your pleasure with me?”**

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, as the Warlock struggled to reign in his traitorous body. He took in great gulps of air, trying unsuccessfully to dampen his natural reactions.

Meanwhile, the vampire had busied himself, nipping at the sensitive ears of his guest as he ground his thigh against the evidence of his impressive arousal.

Drath was lost to the sensation, edging closer to unwanted bliss as his partner expertly attacked his most erogenous areas. The feeling of fear was still present, but it was now somewhat muted under the amorous onslaught.

A moment of clarity struck him as he realised that he had very little left to lose. He would soon surrender his mortality to the Legendary Vampire, so what did it matter if he surrendered his body too.

He barely heard the door to the Library swing open, the sound registering dimly at the back of his mind. Giving in, the Half-Elf tilted his head up to allow the prince further access, at the same time grinding down on the offered thigh and putting on quite the show for Zsuzsanna.

…

After the woman had left, the next few moments had passed as if they were scenes from a dream, and Drath found himself within the private chambers of the Lord of Barovia. Lit with dozens of candles, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust properly, almost on the edge of the whites and greys of his Darkvision.

Movement attracted his gaze as he watched the Legendary Vampire walk towards a fine mahogany dresser at the side of the room. Strahd had purposefully kept him on the knife edge between fear and desire and he was unsure of what was expected from him.

He saw the prince begin to lift the loose white shirt, taut back and strong shoulders exposed as he stretched, the fabric bunched in one hand before it was carelessly dropped to the floor below.

If the Warlock had any doubts prior to this, they were immediately quashed, the view before him proving that the vampire had intended to seduce the mage from the moment he arrived. The form-fitting riding breeches left very little to the imagination, and they sat low on his waist so as best to display the line of the man’s figure.

Strahd had been a soldier prior to his fateful arrival in Barovia, and it was clear that his warrior’s body had been maintained, through either the dark magic involved in his transformation, or the more traditional approach of continued exercise. Either way, it was a striking sight to behold, and Drath’s pupils dilated in anticipation.

When he turned to face the young man, the vampire’s eyes were equally dark with desire, focus narrowed on him as if nothing else existed in that moment. The prince crossed his arms over his chest expectantly, muscles bunched as he leaned back against the dresser.

Though he said nothing, the Half-Elf understood what was being asked of him, and he nervously began to disrobe. He still had some of his black armour on, and pulled at the clasps, the light leather dropping away, quickly followed by the grey cotton shirt beneath.

A cool breeze swept across the heated flesh of his chest, and his nipples pebbled with the drop in temperature. Strahd looked on appreciatively as he continued to strip, eyes dropped low to watch as the mage fiddled with the ties on his breeches.

When he was finally exposed fully to the gaze of his partner, Drath was left suddenly shy under inspection, no longer able to meet the gaze of the Legendary Vampire. The Warlock began to turn away, when he suddenly found himself in the man’s arms. With a mere thought, the prince had effectively teleported across the room, unable to resist the desire to touch his prey.

With that he was swept to bed as Strahd dominated and ravished him again and again, taking pleasure within each other till the early hours of the morning.

When at last they had finished coupling, the Half-Elf was utterly spent in every way, and ready to slip into the respite of dreams. In a doze, he barely felt the press of lips to his pulse point, too fatigued to properly register the threat.

When the bite came it was quick and sharp. Drath’s eyes flew open in surprise as the moment he had been dreading finally struck; the vampire’s teeth dug deep into the side of his neck, drawing mouthful after mouthful of blood from him.

He could not prevent the whimper that escaped his mouth, as a numbness swept over him. This was nothing like either of the bites he had experience prior to this moment - instinctively he knew it was a killing strike, and that this would be the end of his mortal existence.

On the outside, everything was almost completely still, the only movement perpetrated by Strahd as he drank down the Warlock’s essence. Inside however, there was a brutal and bloody battle taking place between Drath’s oldest devil and the Dark Powers of Barovia. Though the two men were completely unaware of the invisible struggle, the outcome was soon to be revealed, and the implications would be world changing.

**Author's Note:**

> This story started as a bit of a niggle at the back of my head. Our D&D group have been playing the Curse of Strahd campaign for a couple of months now, and are lucky enough to have a really talented and creative DM.
> 
> With the inspiration there, I decided to give writing a shot and this is the result. As an adult, this is the first time I've sat down to try and write creatively, and I've surprised myself at how much I'm enjoying it. Hopefully you guys have enjoyed it too, and I'm always open to constructive feedback, both positive and critical in nature.
> 
> I'll aim to update as often as I can until its finished. It may be slightly irregular, as the weekly sessions we play do have an active impact on the descriptions of events in the story, even if the main plot is already there. As such, the timings may revolve around this.


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